


Straw and Blood

by HopeCoppice



Series: Blood and Straw [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Actually Gabriel isn't going to be in this much but I couldn't resist the tag from the other fic, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Childbirth, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Gabriel is a penis, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Other, Reluctant Surrender of Child, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:01:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 43
Words: 60,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25224316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: One night can change everything. And sometimes, there are no good options.This time, from Crowley's POV.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Blood and Straw [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1669183
Comments: 340
Kudos: 109





	1. Golgotha, 33AD

**Author's Note:**

> Anyone still want this fic?
> 
> Please note that this fic will contain heavy angst, an unexpected child, mentions of possible miscarriage/abortion, and the reluctant surrender of a child. Perhaps unsurprisingly, there's also a fair bit of trauma in there. And some gore.
> 
> If you've read 'Blood and Straw' you already know the basic shape of the story; if you haven't, that's where you can find answers if I'm not posting fast enough!
> 
> That said, this first chapter is mostly smut.

The door has barely closed on the last room at the inn before the scrabbling at clothes begins.

Crowley has had enough of the cruelty of men, has seen far too much of it in the past few hours, has watched as a kind and gentle human was put to death for the crime of having ideals, and now she wants to be reassured that the world can be gentle. That the world can feel good. That she, herself, is alive.

She tugs her veil from her head, lets it fall as Aziraphale slams her up against the door, the raw strength of him overpowering in more ways than one - but then he falters.

“No, go on,” she urges him, “that was bloody hot for a moment there-” She gets no further, her voice escaping in a moan of pleasure as Aziraphale finally, _finally_ \- after all her centuries of pining - kisses her. His hands tug at her dress, and it seems almost painful for him to pull away and ask her permission to go on.

“Crowley- can I-?”

“You’d better,” she hisses, and he has her dress over her head and off before she can second-guess herself. Then he’s kissing her again, pressing his lips to her face, her neck, her mouth- it’s not enough. She wants him, and she wants to _see_ him.

“You’re overdressed,” she growls between kisses, “and behind the times. Better just get it all off, really.” She snatches his turban from his head and throws it, paying no attention to where it lands.

“Get _you_ all off,” he grouses, and she beams at him. He’s _teasing_. She’d never imagined he would tease her, if she ever managed to tempt him like this. It’s perfect.

“That’s the spirit, angel.” Between them, they get him out of his robes, and then there they both are, gloriously naked, his body pressing hers against the door. She revels in the sensation; in his softness, and his hardness, the evidence of his arousal against her thigh.

“Crowley-” It’s an urgent sort of sound, a _wanting_ sound, and she’s never done this. She’s never done this, and there are a thousand things she wants to try, but more than anything she just wants _him_ , she wants it to be good for him, she wants him to be good to her.

“The things I want to do to you,” she whispers against the shell of his ear, “but you’re so ready for me, aren’t you?” She’s never done this before, and she’s not sure how it’s supposed to go, but Aziraphale doesn’t seem to have any complaints so far.

“Yes,” he gasps, “are- are you-?”

“Oh yes. Feel.” She takes his hand, heart pounding with the thrill of her own audacity, and guides it between her legs to where she’s wet and wanting. His fingers move, exploring, _teasing_ , and Crowley feels a thousand tiny tremors shake her body. If this is how it feels when he touches her, what will the rest feel like?

“Sorry,” he says, and she’s baffled, for a moment. What does he have to apologise for? But when she opens her eyes - when had she closed them? - she recognises his expression from a hundred meetings quite unlike this. She knows what it means; he thinks she’s _cold._ “Are-?”

“Bed,” she demands, and shoves him backwards towards it.

The blankets are rough and scratchy, thrown over a lumpy pallet of straw, and Crowley can’t help a shiver of anticipation as she thinks of how they’ll contrast with the soft, smooth sensation of Aziraphale on top of her, _inside_ her. She hopes he’ll be careful with her. She hopes he’ll be kind. It feels, suddenly, very important.

As if he’s read her mind, Aziraphale reaches out to run a hand through her hair, and Crowley can’t help but lean into the touch. “What’s wrong, my dear?”

“It can’t mean anything,” she murmurs, as much to remind herself as anything else.

He shakes his head. “It can’t _not_.” And of course it means something, it has to mean something, not just to him, but to her too, because this is _Aziraphale_ and Crowley has loved him since- well, since the dawn of time, give or take a little while. But it’s not _allowed_ to mean anything.

“Angel-”

“If you don’t want to- if you’re having second thoughts-”

“I’m not. It’s just.” She ducks her head and peers up at him through her eyelashes, as if that’s enough of a shield to keep her safe as she exposes her weakness. “Demons don’t _want_ gentle.” _Please understand,_ she thinks, _I shouldn’t, but I do. I want all the gentleness you have in you._

And Aziraphale, gracious as ever, nods very slightly in understanding.

“Well, angels sometimes do,” he offers; an excuse, a lifeline. “If you can bear it.”

“I can suffer it, I suppose.” She doesn’t even know why she’s trying to act tough; surely he knows her by now. But she’s grateful, truly grateful to him for allowing her to keep up the pretence- His hand moves to cup her breast and the thought evaporates, lost in a rush of desire. She feels all the tension leave her body, melting under his touch. “Just- hurry-”

She urges his hand downwards and bites back a hiss as he finds his target. As he starts to move his fingers, gently exploring her body, she loses control altogether, and it’s not long until she’s clawing at his back and making almost-unspeakable threats against his person if he doesn’t get inside her _right now, angel_. She knows he can hear the desperation in her voice, but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t _care_. She just wants him.

Aziraphale tips her backwards onto the mattress, lining their bodies up, and pauses for half a breath that feels like an eternity. Crowley is wonderfully pinned, trapped between scratchy fabric and soft angel and the firm, insistent pressure of his body against hers. And then, Satan help her, he moves forwards, presses in with steady, diligent care. They’re as one, for a moment, as close as it’s physically possible for two beings in bodies to be, and then he moves, and she loses track of who is who and which way is up. It feels like coming home, like being a part of something, like being _treasured_ \- because his hands are careful and his eyes are warm and his body, rocking into hers, feels every bit as divine as an angel’s caress should. She wants to belong to him forever, she never wants to give him up.

She clutches at him, and writhes beneath him, and at last she manages to gather enough of her wits to roll them over and take charge, riding him with sinuous rolls of her hips until his eyes roll back in his head and he has to close them. She keens as she comes undone, and doesn’t have time to be ashamed of the sound before he’s crying out, too, shaking apart beneath her. She collapses onto him, boneless, and barely musters the energy to protest as he slips free of her, leaving her feeling oddly empty. But then he rolls them onto their sides, and wraps her in his arms; kisses her neck, and sighs his way into sleep. She’s never seen him sleep before.

Crowley’s not sure how long she lies there, just gazing at him, trying to commit his face to memory as if she might, one day, be asked to describe the exact details of the moment. She won’t, of course; it would be safer to forget the whole incident. She won’t, though. It’s perfect, this moment, without the world to judge them or their sides to punish them. She wouldn’t surrender this memory for any price.

Her eyes close, just for a moment, and when she opens them again her arms are around him, and he’s looking back at her.

“‘M a snake. What’s your excuse?” But she can’t keep the smile from playing at the corners of her lips, and his answering smile could light the whole world.

“Oh, I see. You’re constricting me. How fiendish of you.”

“‘Zactly. Glad we understand each other.” She buries her face against his shoulder and sighs, awareness creeping back in. “All sssticky now.”

“Sorry.” He snaps his fingers to clean them both up, and the miracle whispers against her skin. It doesn’t hurt, or burn, or sting; Aziraphale’s miracles never have, though she always half-expects them to. But the trace of divinity breaks the illusion, reminds her that this cannot be, should not have been, may never be again. He is an angel, and she is a demon, and maybe this is the only time they’ll ever do this.

She presses one last kiss to his lips and struggles back into her dress, suddenly self-conscious. This _should_ be the only time, and that means it _will_ be, because angels are big on _should_ and Aziraphale, for all his fine qualities, is an angel.

“I’m in town for a few more days,” he tells her, and she glances over her shoulder to see that he’s already hiding that perfect body under hopelessly outdated clothing. For a moment, she wonders if there’s hope, if the question is an offer in disguise. But then reality sinks in; even if it was, even if she was worthy of a warrior of God, even if she _wanted_ to be worthy of him, she can’t stay. She has dark places to be, and wicked things to do.

“I should be on my way already.”

“And everything- we’ll go on as usual?”

She searches his face for any sign that he doesn’t want that, that he might prefer things to change. _You fool; do you want him to Fall? Do you want to be his damnation?_

“Just like usual, angel. Like this never happened.”

She wrenches the door open and stumbles out of the room, down the corridor, out of the building and into the cold light of dawn. She is accustomed to the cold; she is accustomed to being alone. She will be fine.

She has work to do.


	2. Salerno, 33AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: accidental/unexpected pregnancy, mentions of abortion and miscarriage as possibilities. Crowley's decision RE: abortion is not intended to suggest that it's the right or wrong thing to do, it's just the choice Crowley makes.
> 
> Historical/biblical notes at the end. I'll try to do them for each chapter that makes non-show references but if I forget please feel free to yell at me and I'll explain!
> 
> Enjoy.

Crowley is feeling pretty good about herself. She's sweet-talked Emperor Tiberius into making some extremely dubious financial decisions in Rome, and chaos is sure to follow. Now she has some time to kill, so she takes the long route back towards her next assignment. It's in the general direction of Jerusalem, and she doesn't want to face the memories there yet, so she stows away on a ship bound for Carthage and hides in its belly, which soon sours her good mood as she succumbs to seasickness that lasts the whole miserable voyage.

Once she disembarks, she heads east towards Cyrene with a vague notion of seeing what's worth trading there. It's halfway there that the first old woman stops her on the road.

"Is this your first?"

"No, I've seen a road before," Crowley assures her, and the old woman laughs.

"You're right, it's none of my business. I wish you joy."

Crowley thinks it's odd, just as she thinks the gradual thickening of her waist is odd, but she gives neither much thought until she meets some young women by the river, washing their clothes and talking about what they call  _ women's problems. _ She can't help but overhear.

"It's the bloated feeling that really gets to me," one of them is saying, and Crowley frowns. It's normal, then, for Eve-shaped beings to feel bloated? No doubt that's what she's been experiencing. She's never worn an Eve-type corporation for this long before, and she has had moments of wishing she might be perceived as a little less womanly, on the road, but overall she's enjoying it. She thinks it suits her, at least for now. She's in no hurry to change.

Weeks pass; she noses around Cyrene for a bit and sets off east again. The next old woman to cross her path tuts disapprovingly. 

"You're travelling alone? Where is your husband, that he lets you trudge so many weary miles all by yourself?"

"I don't need permission," Crowley says, and the woman's face softens.

"Of course not," she soothes, "was he bad to you?"

Crowley's not sure what to say to that; she doesn't  _ have _ a husband. "What makes you think I'm married?"

To her surprise, the woman reaches out and presses a hand to Crowley's stomach, the gentle curve of it firm to the touch.

"Somebody got you in the family way, my dear. I just assumed. You really shouldn't travel alone in your condition, though."

"I shouldn't?" None of the words she's saying make sense.

"No, my dear. Somebody ought to take care of you. Are you going to family?"

And Crowley, relieved beyond belief to have a way out of the confusing conversation, tells her she is. Perhaps, she thinks as the old woman bids her a safe journey and wishes her joy,  _ in the family way _ means something different now. Perhaps it means  _ on the way to family. _

Perhaps the rounding of her body is a coincidence.

Deep down, though, Crowley knows. She knows for certain when she feels movement inside herself, movement she knows isn't the result of digestion. She doesn't eat often; she hasn't eaten in weeks, the first time she feels it. She has refused to let herself notice that recently, she has been eating once or twice a month rather than once or twice a year as is her custom. Regardless, she knows what the stirring within her means. What it  _ must  _ mean.

Crowley presses a hand to her stomach - causing another flurry of well-wishes from fellow travellers, all of whom seem certain her husband must be delighted - and keeps walking aimlessly until she finds herself at the edge of a desert, all alone. It is only then, with only the stars as her witness, that she allows herself to sink to the ground and cry.

She's been a fool. She's still a fool, because she's sitting at the side of an empty road and sobbing into the sand instead of making a plan. If she'd changed her body recently, if she'd done things differently, if she hadn't  _ slept with her adversary… _ But she can't change the past, and now here she is, up the proverbial creek without a metaphorical paddle. She is pregnant with an angel's child, and Hell will be sure to make her pay if they find out.

She's afraid, so very afraid. Aziraphale's child -  _ her  _ child - will almost certainly be born an angel, she's certain of it, and who can say how it will happen? She's never heard of any angel, or demon, reproducing; for all she knows, it will grow to maturity inside her and tear her apart to get out. She counts herself lucky that its divinity hasn't killed her already; it's all the luck she has. And if it is born as humans are, fresh and helpless and wailing, what then? She will have nobody to help her raise it, she can't share the child with humans or take it to Hell with her. The child will never be safe, never. And that's if she can even carry it to term, if Aziraphale's divinity and her occultism don't cancel one another out and leave her with nothing.

She weeps for hours, long enough that the sun rises and a woman passing by stops to ask if she's all right.

"No," Crowley tells her, too upset to politely set the woman's mind at ease, "but there's nothing anyone can do for me."

"No?" The woman looks around warily, reaches into the bag she carries with her, and shows Crowley a bundle of herbs. "From Cyrene. One less problem? One less burden to carry, one less mouth to feed?"

Crowley stares at her blankly for several long, heavy moments before that makes sense.

"Oh! No. No, thank you. This isn't- it's not a  _ problem. _ " She's offended, ridiculously, on her future child's behalf, and the woman takes two steps back as if she fears violence. "No, thank you. But- I appreciate the thought. Truly." The woman nods, returning to her own family as they move off down the road again.

Crowley is left alone with the bump in her dress.

"You're not a burden," she tells it quietly, and feels a fool for saying it. This child, as yet unborn, will likely be the death of her, and yet she feels  _ sorry  _ for it. For being described as an obstacle to be removed, for having only Crowley to depend on. She is unreliable, always has been, and her only hope is that somehow she will corrupt the child inside her, that they will Fall before they're alive enough to feel the loss. A demon child would make Crowley vulnerable, but an angelic one is a death sentence for them both.

"We'll just have to keep moving," she tells her belly, and stands carefully, shifting her weight from foot to foot before beginning to walk, conscious now of her own body, of the ways it is changing.

She dares not seek out Aziraphale. She's afraid to endanger him; she's afraid he'll reject her. She's afraid he won't even accept responsibility for the child, and she's afraid that he'll take all the responsibility and leave her with nothing. She's afraid he'll think it's a wile, a trap she's set to catch him. No, she cannot tell Aziraphale.

She keeps moving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical references: According to Wikipedia, Emperor Tiberius started a credit union in 33AD, and then there was a financial crisis in Rome due to poorly chosen fiscal policies. Crowley, being Crowley, probably lost some wealth or status as a result of this, hence stowing away rather than booking passage on a ship to Carthage (now Tunisia). Tensions between Carthage and Rome were pretty high at the time, I think, so she's probably hiding on a military vessel!
> 
> You can follow the rough line of Crowley's journey if you search directions from Rome to Jerusalem on Google Maps and pick the longer driving route (through Tunisia, Libya and Egypt).
> 
> Cyrene was a city in now-Libya which was known, among other things, for silphium, a herb used as a contraceptive and abortifacient (although it had many other uses!) - while it's believed to have died out any time between 200BC and the time of this fic, with supplies growing scarce before that, I'm sure the merchants and medics of Cyrene would have found some alternative. Otherwise, I'm using the same logic that allows the Bastille to still stand in 1793 in the show.
> 
> Whew, that's a lot of history (of dubious accuracy). Thanks for reading, if you did!
> 
> Biblical references: None for now!


	3. Anathoth, 34 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: gore, childbirth, fear of discorporation, loss of consciousness. 
> 
> Updates will probably slow down after this, although I've got several more chapters written. Enjoy!

**Anathoth, 34AD**

Crowley makes it to Jerusalem, ready to follow the man she's been told to tempt on his way to Damascus. A message finds her there, from Aziraphale; he wants her to meet him in a few weeks' time, no doubt to demand explanations for the financial crisis in Rome or the state of China or any number of things he believes to be Crowley's fault. She notes the details, but otherwise ignores it; she doesn't know what to say. If she can meet him without revealing her pregnancy, somehow - perhaps if the child is already born and can be safely left somewhere - she will go. If not, well, they're on different sides and she is under no obligation to meet him.

She finds her human quarry just setting out, and joins the beggars behind him. There are always poor people following wealthy men like him on the roads, hoping for scraps of kindness they rarely receive; one more doesn't raise any questions. Crowley allows the other followers to fuss over her for the first day or so, and then assures them she'll be fine. All the same, the pregnant woman trudging wearily among them seems to tempt her fellow beggars to kindness; she is always offered the lion's share of any food they're given along the road, and she does her best to return their kindness with little miracles to help them on their way to prosperity.

They are just within sight of a little settlement when Crowley abruptly doubles over, pain coursing through her body as if her insides are being crushed.

"Are you all right?" 

It takes Crowley longer than she'd like to catch her breath, to answer the enquiry, but then the pain is gone, leaving just an ache as a reminder, and she can carry on.

The pain comes again, later, and again, until she's barely stumbling forward. The man she's been set to follow doesn't even spare her a glance, but one of his attendants gives her water, offers an arm for her to lean on. She'd take it, but another woman gets an arm around Crowley instead.

"She needs help you can't give," she tells the man, "and she's got a few hours to go yet." Crowley doesn't understand, but she doesn't have the strength to ask; the woman must see it in her eyes. "You must have seen babies born before. Your time's coming, you poor sweet girl, and you don't want to do it alone."

Crowley _has_ seen babies born, seen humans scream and cry and rage against the process, but it feels quite unfamiliar from the inside. It's terrifying, the way her body is no longer obeying her, the way it feels as if it's being pushed and pulled out of shape. The way it _hurts_. No, she doesn't want to do it alone. But she has to. She _has_ to.

This baby - whatever it is - she can't be sure it won't be born with tightly-furled wings on display, or scales. She can't be sure it won't slip from her body with an ethereal light and a chorus of _holy, holy,_ for that matter - and she's fairly certain her newborn will not be making an Effort. Humans will notice any of those things, and the news will spread. So Crowley grits her teeth and lies.

"My sister lives in Anathoth. If you get me to the edge of the village, I'll manage from there." And maybe she manages a tiny demonic miracle, or maybe she just looks so determined she isn't worth arguing with, but one way or another, she finds herself alone at the edge of the village, stumbling between houses, between pains, between ragged breaths. She finds herself, at last, in the doorway of an empty stable. It will have to do.

"Worked for Mary," she gasps aloud, because she feels as though she might go insane without someone there to reassure her. It will have to be her; even if it was safe to involve a human in Crowley's private agony, it's far too late. The straw beneath her feet is wet, all of a sudden, and she doesn't have time to fetch anyone. Instead, she gathers up her skirts and gets down on all fours as the contractions continue relentlessly.

She doesn't know how much time passes as she labours, shifting from one position to another, her wings spread all the while to shield the stable from human perception. She's certain she's about to discorporate when suddenly something gives way and her child slithers from her body and into her arms. She sobs with relief as the child begins to cry, counts their toes and strokes their back until their little flightless wings fold into the ether. She severs the cord between them with a miracle that feels like ripping the last dregs of power out of her soul, then wraps the baby in her veil and tucks them safely into the manger before falling to her knees again to wait for the contractions to be done.

When, at last, she's sure it's over, she raises herself from the blood-stained straw and staggers back to the manger, where her child lies quietly. For a moment, she can only gaze at their sleeping face in wonder, amazed that something so tiny and perfect could have come from her. She reaches out to touch their cheek, and they begin to cry.

"No, no, don't cry, it's all right. Mama's here," she tries, and immediately cringes; it doesn't sound right at all. Still, the child will have to call her something. Crowley will have to get used to it. She reaches in and gathers the child to her chest, rocking them, making soothing noises, but the child is inconsolable. _Of course they are,_ a horrible little voice inside her whispers. _What sort of angel could find comfort in the arms of a demon?_

She lays the baby back in the manger, firmly swaddled, and takes a couple of steps back, only for the child to fall into blissful, silent sleep again. It _is_ her, then; her baby cannot stand to be near her. Of course they can't; she can sense the divinity of them. It's too much, too unfair, and she has had enough pain for one day; she retreats to a corner so she won't disturb the child and sobs her heart out. She cries for the injustice of it all, she cries out her exhaustion and her loneliness, she cries because she doesn't know what to do next. And through it all, she tries to be quiet, to let her child sleep. 

"Crowley?" She turns to see Aziraphale's shocked face turned in her direction and, beyond him, a tiny hand escaping its blankets. She forces herself to look away from the manger and, for a moment, imagines the scene through Aziraphale's eyes. The stable looks as though somebody's been murdered in it, and there's no one else here - at least, no one Crowley's ready for Aziraphale to see. "What's happened?"

She doesn't know what to tell him. She clamps a hand over her mouth to silence her pathetic whimpering and buy herself a moment to think, and realises to her horror that somebody is still making soft noises.

"Crowley, what-?"

"Just me, it's just me, I'm, er, hurt, that's- _don't!"_

Aziraphale is turning towards the source of the noise, and she hurls herself into his path with what, surely, must be the very last of her energy. She doesn't know why it would be so bad for him to know - soon enough, he will _have_ to know - but he deserves some warning, and doesn't she deserve a moment to adjust?

"Angel, you're being rude now, don't you want to make sure I'm all right?" It's a desperate ploy, but it's working; she sees his expression soften and wonders what he sees when he looks at her in return. Is she as pale as she feels? Is she really swaying, or does the world only _feel_ like it's tipping on its axis? He reaches out to steady her, which goes some way to answering that question - and then the baby's cry pierces the air.

She closes her eyes in resignation and waits to be pushed aside; it's over, there's no way he won't discover the child now. But he doesn't move.

"You- you stole a child?"

It's a fair assumption, she supposes, feeling oddly distant; she's done that before, when a child was unsafe or lived in fear. Before she can correct him, before she can even realise she ought to, he lets go of her and she knows he's going to the manger. To the baby.

There's a moment of silence - even the baby has stopped to take a breath - that seems to last for a lifetime.

"It's yours," Aziraphale exclaims, as Crowley wonders vaguely if she should still be bleeding by now. "It's an _angel."_ He sounds surprised, so Crowley explains as best she can under the circumstances.

"Of course it is." She sounds bitter, even to her own ears, but can't muster the energy to correct her tone. "Same original stock."

"But- _pure_ angel- Crowley, is this child-?"

The straw rushes up to meet her, and Crowley's world goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Biblical references: Crowley is supposed to be keeping an eye on a guy called Saul, who is travelling to Damascus. In her absence, he runs into an angel, goes blind for a bit, becomes Paul, and writes a large chunk of the New Testament.
> 
> Anathoth is mentioned in the Bible, but its whereabouts are unclear. I've imagined it as a predecessor to the Palestinian town of Anata.
> 
> I think that's it for this one!


	4. Anathoth, 34 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't leave it there for too long.
> 
> Biblical References: see previous endnotes.

Crowley wakes with her head cushioned on something soft and warm and an overwhelming feeling of safety. For a moment, she wonders if she's died and gone to Heaven, but then reality sets in. There is nothing soft or warm about Heaven, and Crowley certainly wouldn't be allowed in even if there was.

Someone is stroking her hair. She knows who it must be, even before she opens her eyes to see Aziraphale. He's glancing between her and the manger, which he's got one hand over the edge of, and Crowley remembers what he'd been asking before she passed out.

"Ours," she admits reluctantly, despising the weakness of her own voice. The hand in her hair keeps moving, but she knows he must be struggling with the news. "I don't expect you to forgive me."

"No, well, I am a bit cross." She feels every joint in her body lock, tensing as she realises her head is in the lap of an angry angel. His hand is still in her hair; he could snap her neck with a single sharp, vengeful movement. Of course he's angry; she has given birth to the damning evidence of their transgression- "Oh, my dear, no." His voice is more gentle than ever; she doesn't understand. "Only that you were alone. Only that- I was so frightened when I found you, and then when you collapsed-" That makes sense; he wouldn't want to be in sole charge of a being that shouldn't, according to Heaven, exist.

"Thought I'd left you holding the baby?"

"I thought you'd  _ hurt _ yourself. Discorporated, even, I thought- You must know I like having you around."

That's unexpected - and comforting, actually. Crowley lets herself relax, her head resting in Aziraphale's lap, enjoying the feeling of his hand moving through her hair. She closes her eyes; if he was going to hurt her, he could have done it while she was unconscious.

"Going nowhere, angel. Can't, at least for a little while. Feel like my insides might fall out if I try. Is the baby-?"

"Just fine. Would you like me to pass them to you?"

Her eyes fly open. "No, I'm- they cry whenever I go near them." She scoffs. "Hereditary enemy to my own child, wonderful."

"I'm sure that's not-"

"No, it's- it's better they don't get attached. I just- well, I should have realised they wouldn't be like me."

"Why-?" Aziraphale moves his leg, slowly and carefully, until Crowley has to sit up with a groan. She doesn't have to look at him, though, and he can't make her. "Why is it better they don't get attached?"

He can't really be that stupid. "I can't take a baby angel anywhere near Hell, Satan knows what they'd do with them - and I can't outrun them for long."

"Then what do you plan to do?"

Crowley doesn't speak. She doesn't have a plan; that's the problem. She can't keep an angelic baby with her; she just doesn't have any other options. If Hell finds her with them, she'll be in so much trouble that her child won't get a chance to know her anyway. The whole thing is a mess.

Eventually, Aziraphale must feel the urge to fill the silence.

"What about Heaven?"

"Oh, yeah, they'd love it if I pitched up on the doorstep."

"What if… well, what if I said it was mine?"

"It  _ is _ yours, angel." She's hurt that he thinks she'd lie about that - besides, what does he think, that she's just been going around bedding angels left, right and centre?

"Yes. But if they think it's  _ just _ mine… I could say it just… appeared unexpectedly. Ineffably. Out of the blue. The child is an angel, after all."

It takes a moment for that to sink in.

"You want me to let Heaven raise my child."

"I want you to let  _ me _ raise them."

"They'll make them hate me."

"They couldn't make  _ me _ hate you. It's the only way you can both be safe, Crowley."

It makes sense; that's the worst thing about it. It's the only logical solution, the only possible chance they have of all getting through this alive. She tugs at her hair, missing Aziraphale's gentle touch.

"What if they take them from you?" It's an unbearable possibility. "You're a field agent. What if they insist they're raised in Heaven and send you back?"

"Then… I'll visit. Often. They can't deny me that."

_ Spare me the blind faith of angels.  _ "It's Heaven, angel. They do as they like."

"Well, do you have any better ideas?" He looks as if he really expects her to, almost pathetically hopeful. "Or one single better idea?" But she's got nothing.

Crowley sighs, defeated; they have no choice. This is her child's only chance.

"You'd better take them now. They'll expect you to report this… miracle… straight away."

"But Crowley- don't you want to say goodbye?"

She doesn't; of course she doesn't. She wants to stay with her child, she wants to take them and Aziraphale and flee to somewhere no one can find them, somewhere no one can harm them. She wants to be a part of her child's life, a part of the family she's inadvertently created. But there's no such place. No such family. She stands, slowly, and approaches the manger with small, unsteady steps. As she expects, the baby starts to scream when she approaches. As they should; she is unworthy, an infernal thing cringing in the light of her child's perfection. Still, she leans down to brush a kiss over her child's forehead.  _ I love you,  _ she thinks,  _ hopefully he'll let me see you again.  _ She loves Aziraphale, too, but now she has to  _ trust _ him as well, trust him with something unbelievably precious. She has to walk away. 

She turns from the manger with difficulty, daring him to comment as she brushes treacherous tears from her cheeks.

"I need an alibi, somewhere far from here. But you'll tell me what happens.  _ Whatever _ happens." It's half a threat, half a plea.

"Of course I will, dear. Where shall I meet you?"

"Oh, Alexandria, I suppose. I have to-" And she rushes from the stable before she can change her mind.

She runs - the angel must have healed her, the fool - until she reaches the outskirts of the village, and then she very nearly turns and runs back. It can't be too late, can it, surely Aziraphale will understand if she goes back and reclaims her child- but Hell  _ won't  _ understand. She forces herself to stay still, to sink down against a wall and stay still, to take deep breaths and stay still. Aziraphale will take care of the baby, she knows he will. But she can't just leave them. No, she has to go back-

Lightning flashes in a blue sky, and the roll of thunder that follows might as well be a death knell for her chance to change her mind. Aziraphale has summoned an archangel, and Crowley needs to leave,  _ now. _

She abandons her previous job and flees to Alexandria. Hell sends two lesser demons to give her a good kicking - apparently her target was intercepted by an angel before he could reach Damascus - and she sends them packing with their tails between their legs. Then she settles down to await the arrival of Aziraphale and their child.


	5. Alexandria, 34 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for this chapter. Some of you rightly noted that Crowley was setting herself up for disappointment last chapter, and here it comes.
> 
> She's also going to have a bit of a trauma reaction here, and the action she reacts to reads, from her POV, as more of a threat than it seemed in Aziraphale's, even though what physically happens is the same. So just a warning for that.

Crowley has taken to spending hours each day in the Library of Alexandria, carefully positioning herself so she can see two different entrances. Left to his own devices in the city, Aziraphale will always find his way here; he'd been bitterly upset about the fire for months after it happened. He will find his way here, and Crowley will be ready and waiting to see their baby again. While they're so young, surely it will be safe enough for Crowley to hold them once or twice? It's not as if they'll remember, not as if they can tell Heaven about her unusual interest in them.

She waits. And waits. Perhaps he didn't hear her when she told him where to meet her? Perhaps he's at the baths, or searching the little inns for her? Perhaps… perhaps he's not coming. Perhaps he has taken the baby - his baby - and run, to spare the child the indignity of a demonic mother.

She's listlessly rearranging the same few scrolls when she senses the angelic presence behind her. She can't help glancing over her shoulder, heart leaping in anticipation of seeing her child again- but Aziraphale is alone. She turns back to the shelves to hide her disappointment, and it's only a matter of seconds before he's at her side. She tries to hold the pieces of her heart together; maybe he's just keeping the baby hidden, somewhere safe. He'll take her to them, she's sure of it.

"Do you have rooms?" Well, then. He'll bring them to her. That's it, it has to be.

"A house," she murmurs, "east of here."

"Let's go there." There's a solemn tone to his voice that she doesn't much like, that she dares not read anything into. She'll fall apart if she thinks about it too hard. "We should talk privately."

Her fears stop her in her tracks, for a moment, and she wants to refuse, to say or do anything so she won't have to hear him tell her what she doesn't want to know, what she doesn't want to be true. But Crowley has always been too curious for her own good; she has always had to _know._ She nods.

"Follow me."

She barely lets Aziraphale across the threshold before she turns on him.

"Where are they?"

"Heaven," he says, and the world drops away from Crowley's feet. She is Falling again, she's sure of it; everything is lost, all her efforts have been wasted. Heaven has her child. Aziraphale is speaking, she realises, and forces herself to focus on his words. "I did try-"

She has to turn away; she can't let him see her break. Besides, if she looks at him, she might lash out, rake vicious claws across his face and make him feel her pain. If she does that, she loses him too. If she does that, he won't tell her anything.

"Did they suspect-?"

"No. No, I'm confident they'll treat them well."

"Oh, well, if you're _confident-_ " She can't go on; Aziraphale pulls her into a hug and she resists, just for a moment, before collapsing into his arms. She will take any comfort she can get, right now, because if Heaven has her child, she will never see them again. She buries her face in his shoulder and hopes he doesn't notice the way her own shoulders are heaving as she sobs.

He rubs her back, but he doesn't comment. He doesn't cry, and he doesn't complain, and Crowley wonders how he can stand it, how he can be so calm when she feels as though her heart has been ripped out.

"Is there anything- what can I do to help you, my dear?" he asks, as she manages to get herself under control at last.

She looks up at him and sighs. "Alcohol. Quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol."

Hours pass in drinking, and Crowley is just beginning to feel numb when Aziraphale opens the wound again.

"I really am sorry, Crowley. They couldn't have been safe-"

"Nah, 's like-" She struggles to think of something reassuring. "-like Moses. Isn’t it? You remember Moses, don’t you?”

“Yes, Crowley, I remember.”

“Wasn’t safe for Jochebed to have him. Had to give him to an Egyptian. All… all worked out all right in the end, didn’t it?”

“Well.” Aziraphale doesn't sound entirely convinced, but then Crowley isn't either. She's just trying to make it hurt less, somehow. “Yes, I suppose it did-”

“Well then. Did the right thing. Didn’t we?”

“Yes.” He seems so certain; she envies him that. “Yes, I think we did.”

“Good. Great. No need to be miserable, then, eh?” And Crowley knocks back another cup of wine.

When she sets her cup down, intending to pour herself another, she finds Aziraphale looking at her. His expression is curious, almost entranced, as he reaches out to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. For a moment, it feels nice- and then her instincts kick into overdrive and she launches herself backwards.

“Don’t.”

He has the nerve to look crestfallen. “I’m sorry-”

“ _Don’t,_ angel. I can’t do it again.”

“Can’t-?” 

Fear flares up inside her, cold, burning. How dare he reach for her as if nothing has happened? How _dare_ he try to put her at risk again? “Get out. You have to go. Get out!”

For a moment, it looks as though he’s going to plant himself, the guardian at the gate, immovable and unyielding and in her space. But then he holds up his hands.

“I’m going, I’m-” For a moment, they stare at one another, stone-cold sober and afraid. Then Aziraphale leaves, and Crowley is left to collapse into bed alone.

She cries herself to sleep, and doesn’t wake for weeks.


	6. Rome, 41AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone. No references that aren't in the show, this time. So that saves me some typing in the endnotes.
> 
> Er, no warnings I don't think, except for some canon-typical alcohol consumption which in this fic is not necessarily done for healthy reasons.

Crowley has had a rotten day. He’s out of place in Rome, out of fashion, and frankly quite unwelcome. At least the Emperor is already unpleasant enough that Crowley needn’t bother tempting him to any more nastiness. He drags himself into a tavern and orders the local swill, still a little put out about being dragged away from the colder climates where he’s been lurking, allowing the chilly weather to slow his thoughts and dull some of his emotional anguish - and that’s when he hears a familiar voice.

Aziraphale gets his name wrong, at first. Crowley tries not to be offended by that - the name change is recent, in the grand scheme of things - and accepts an invitation to try oysters at a local restaurant. The wine there turns out to be better, too.

“You’ve been busy, then, my dear,” Aziraphale observes, as Crowley finishes telling him what he’s done in the past few years. It sounds like more than it is, really; Crowley has spent a  _ lot  _ of time just trying to numb his emotions since they last met. He nods, all the same.

“No rest for the wicked, angel.” He lowers his gaze for a moment, wondering if he ought to ask. If he wants to know. But he doesn’t really have a choice; he can’t help it. “Have you heard anything?”

If Aziraphale is confused by the sudden change of subject, he doesn’t show it. “Nothing. I’m sorry.” Crowley feels his shoulders slump, but Aziraphale’s still talking. “It’s good news, really. I’d have heard if they were in any trouble.”

“Would you?” It’s a low blow, and he feels terrible the moment he’s said it, holding his hands up in apology. “Sorry. It’s just-”

“Yes. It is,” Aziraphale answers, and Crowley wonders what he’s agreeing with.  _ It’s just hard. It’s just unfair. It’s just terrifying, not knowing what’s happened to our child.  _ “Can I ask you something, Crowley? About… about Anathoth?”

Crowley doesn’t want to talk about Anathoth, doesn’t want to  _ think  _ about Anathoth, and yet it’s all he  _ can  _ think of, most of the time. Those few minutes, when his child had been there- when the three of them had been together, almost like a real family- before it all fell apart, as things do. Anathoth consumes his waking thoughts and haunts his dreams.

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“Why a stable?”

“It was there.” He’d been in no position to be choosy, after all, with the birth of their child beginning whether he liked it or not, with no time to try to find another way. “I panicked.” Still, he’d been glad to set eyes on the stable, in an odd sort of way. “It worked for Mary, didn’t it?” Aziraphale had snuck him in to see what all the fuss was about, posing as a couple of shepherds who’d been left on the hillside when the first lot had visited. Crowley had been enthralled by the tiny being who’d caused so much excitement already; he’d never imagined that just a few short decades later, he’d be looking down at his own child in much the same way.

“Yes, my dear. Very resourceful of you.” Aziraphale sounds odd, almost sarcastic, and Crowley doesn’t like the feeling of his actions being judged. He’s afraid they’ll be found wanting; that Aziraphale will point out a better course of action, some choice he could have made along the way that would have allowed him to keep their child. 

Still, Aziraphale has a right to know what happened to get them to that point.

“Any more questions, angel?”

For a moment, Aziraphale looks at him, and there’s something vulnerable in his expression. Crowley wants to chase it away, to make him feel better, somehow. Aziraphale has always been so strong, even in the face of Heaven’s relentless cruelty. Crowley doesn’t like feeling like he’s brought him low; he’s never wanted to do that. But then the creases of Aziraphale’s face smooth out, and he smiles.

“Just one. Whose round is it?” And Crowley is no stranger to self-medication, nor to putting a brave face on things, so he orders another round and they drink.


	7. Varanasi, 325 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I lose you all? I've clearly been very spoiled in this fandom, if it feels weird when there aren't any comments! Anyway. Hope you enjoy this one!
> 
> EDIT: Oh, rats. This doesn't seem to be telling people when it's updated. Thanks queenvictoriia for spotting that! I'll try to remember to manually update the date on each chapter, but apologies if the problem persists. I assume I've done something to mess it up. Oh well!

Crowley leaves yet another gathering of holy men in uproar, poisonous words and small projectiles being hurled back and forth in anger, and smiles to himself. The work is easy, here, and even better than that is that Aziraphale has agreed to leave him to it for a few weeks. The angel is reading something or other, so Crowley doesn't have to worry about being thwarted by Heaven's only earthly agent for a good while yet. His chaos can reign unimpeded.

At least, that's what he thinks.

He turns a corner, looking for something to do until the shouting in the main chamber dies down, and freezes. There are angels ahead of him, five of them. He's already trying to work out how many of them he can take down on his way out of the situation when he abruptly realises he can't. He recognises one of the angels - that monster who'd taken such delight in the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah all those years ago, who'd turned the group of survivors Crowley had been ushering away into nothing but salt and ash - but the other four are strangers to him.

His child is a stranger to him, too. He might be looking at them, even now. Crowley rakes his eyes over the angels, searching for any hint that they might be his, but then they all seem to notice him at once. Holy weapons are drawn, their very presence scorching, and Crowley is left with only one possible course of action. _Run._

He takes off, disappearing into the maze of the building where the holy men are bickering. He has been here for weeks; he knows the little twists and turns. But the angels are hot on his heels, glory blazing, and they shout for somebody to _stop him!_ These men consider themselves righteous. They do not disobey God's own messengers. And before Crowley knows what's happening, he is stopped by a blade to the gut.

Adrenaline courses through him; he twists free and stumbles on, ducking into an empty room to catch his breath. He takes his hand away from the wound to assess the damage, and regrets it as the room spins. He leans into the feeling of weightlessness and allows himself to blink out of existence. 

When he opens his eyes, he's in a courtyard, thousands of miles from where he started. Aziraphale gets an arm around him, helps him inside, perches him on a bed, and fusses over him.

"Crowley, what happened? Are you hurt? What can I do?"

Crowley takes a very deep breath, closes his eyes, and takes his hand away from the wound in his side. He doesn't mean to cry out, but the sound is ripped from him anyway. Aziraphale is all business when the pain ebbs.

"A human blade?" For a moment, the question makes no sense; for another moment, he doesn't know the answer. But if the blade had been holy, he wouldn't be here. He nods, and Aziraphale seems to relax a fraction. "May I heal you, Crowley?" That's the stupidest question Crowley's ever heard, for all that he'd normally be grateful that Aziraphale isn't just charging ahead without his consent.

"Please-"

It doesn't take long, and yet it seems to take a lifetime. Crowley hisses at the pain and reminds himself that he has been through worse.

When the wound is closed and there's no longer any danger of Crowley discorporating, Aziraphale continues to fuss, and Crowley lets him. He allows himself to be badgered into finishing Aziraphale's meal, and then into lying back on Aziraphale's bed. He should leave, really; he doesn't need bed rest. But he's shaken, more shaken than he feels he has any right to be. It's just an angel attack; he's survived them before. Just not since… not recently.

Aziraphale is talking.

"What on earth happened, Crowley?"

"Council must have been a bigger deal than we thought." He's trying to sound casual, but he feels anything but. "Some of your lot beat you to it, went in for the smite."

"You've fought off angels before," Aziraphale points out, as if Crowley doesn't know that. As if it's not completely different now.

"Yeah, well. I froze. I didn't recognise them, except that creepy git from Sodom. And then it all started getting a bit too holy for comfort, so I ran, and one of the humans thought he'd try to score some points Upstairs - you can see his logic, killing whatever the angels are chasing, that ought to be worth a free ticket to Heaven, right?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale interrupts, and he sounds cross. “You’re babbling. What aren’t you telling me?”

He can't explain. Can't tell him, can't open himself up to ridicule like that - a demon, crippled by his _feelings._ “Nothing, angel. Must be the blood loss.”

Aziraphale gives him a long, searching look, but seems to decide it's not worth pressing the issue. “Well. Not that I’m not flattered, but why did you come to me? We’re supposed to be-”

“Eternal enemies, yeah, I know. But _you’ve_ never tried to discorporate me. And I was already thinking about you, and I suppose- I just- you were the only person I could think to come to.”

“Thinking about me?” Satan bless it, he didn't mean to say that, and now the angel is _blushing._ “Why’s that?”

“Oh. Well. Er.” Crowley sits up slowly, instincts urging him to be ready to run, and peers over the top of his dark glasses at his angel. “Not- not you, as such. More… er… Anathoth.”

Aziraphale looks disappointed, for a moment. Then his eyes widen in obvious alarm. He always has been too clever for his own good. “Crowley- the angels who attacked you- it wasn’t-? You didn’t-?”

“Well, I don’t know, do I?” It comes out as a snarl, and Crowley can't stop it. “How could I ever _know?”_

Aziraphale stares at him in dawning comprehension and horror.

“You couldn’t fight them.”

“I couldn’t, I didn’t- I didn’t know.”

“Surely you’d sense something-”

“You’re up and down to Heaven all the time, have _you_ found them?”

“No.” Crowley had expected nothing different, but it's still a blow when Aziraphale shakes his head. “No, I haven’t.”

“Well, I didn’t- I mean, I didn’t look at any of them and think _oh, it’s you_ \- but I didn’t know. They could have been there. I didn’t recognise them from Before.”

“Oh, Crowley.” It sounds, despite everything, almost _fond_ , and Crowley's whole body seizes up as he tries to fight his own heart's fleeting, futile surge of hope. When Aziraphale speaks again, it's dispassionate, detached. Disappointing. “You have to stay away from angels.”

 _"Really?_ I hadn’t thought of that.” The sarcasm is a reflex. Self-defence and self-destruction, all bound up in the coiled spring that is Crowley. “You’re right, my whole existence would be so much easier if I just _started avoiding angels!”_

“Well, really, dear. Is it really me that you’re angry with?”

It shouldn't be a question; at least, it should be a rhetorical question with an easy answer. But Crowley doesn't lie to Aziraphale, only in truly exceptional circumstances - _just me, it's just me, I'm hurt -_ and the instinctive denial that springs to his tongue tastes like a lie. Crowley _is_ angry, and Aziraphale is caught up in it all, and the only truthful answer he can give is to swallow his response altogether. To say nothing, and watch helplessly as Aziraphale catches on.

“...Oh. Is it?”

“Let me get back to you on that, angel.”

But however he feels about the loss of their child, he loves Aziraphale and he values their friendship. He kisses the angel's temple on the way out, and hopes it's enough to convey his continued admiration.

Then he takes flight and heads down to Hell. No doubt they will want his report.


	8. Durnovaria, 537 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this update will show up properly - I'm sorry if you missed the previous chapter or two. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the update!

Crowley barely intervenes in time to save Aziraphale from an inconvenient discotporation as he blunders into Crowley's territory. Crowley has, in fact, been having rather a grand old time playing at being a wicked knight, but lately it seems adventures are to be found exclusively in the boggier parts of Wessex, and he's getting rather tired of stomping about in an articulated cauldron, slow-cooking himself. He makes a rather stupid - too overt, far too straightforward, not nearly circumspect enough, _stupid -_ suggestion to Aziraphale about covering for each other, and Aziraphale leaves in a huff.

Crowley can't help but seek him out.

He prowls into Aziraphale's camp - because he can, and why shouldn't he, and it's good for his associates to wonder about his actions sometimes and his absence will make them wonder - and promptly realises he shouldn't have come. He shouldn't have come, and he certainly shouldn't approach the tent. He should leave, _now_.

"Who's there?" Aziraphale calls out, and Crowley realises it's too late to turn back. At least, that's his excuse and he's sticking to it. He stifles a laugh with difficulty.

"Banditsss."

"Oh, dear." Aziraphale has never sounded less troubled in his life. "Well, I suppose you'd better come in, then."

Another moment's hesitation, and then he's fumbling with the lacing on the tent flaps, opening them just far enough to worm his way inside. He turns to relace them again, but Aziraphale snaps his fingers and they tie of their own accord.

"Not trying to keep you in, fiend," Aziraphale assures him, as if he’s just remarking on the time of day, "just keeping the cold out."

"It is cold," Crowley admits, and Aziraphale gestures vaguely at the heap of furs and blankets he’s buried in. Crowley’s not sure whether the angel means for him to take one, or to join him, but neither seems like a good idea. Before he can say as much, a light blanket smacks him in the face; he wraps it around himself for want of anything better to do. "It's good to see you."

In the darkness, Crowley’s vision is better than Aziraphale’s - assuming the angel is only using his corporation’s two eyes, that is. He sees how Aziraphale shifts forward a little, leaning as if to try to see Crowley better. It doesn’t seem as though it’s working.

"Is it?" The question is so soft Crowley almost doesn’t catch it. It stings, because it shouldn’t be a question at all; he shouldn’t have left Aziraphale with the words he had, all those years ago. He’s known it ever since. He’s not angry with Aziraphale, not really; he never was. They never had a choice, neither of them. Their child could never have been theirs.

"Of course it is. Didn't you listen, earlier? I suggested we help each other out, didn't I? You're so clever, you must know what that was."

"A shameless attempt to get out of-"

"A peace offering," Crowley interrupts. "I _am_ ashamed. Of what I said, before."

"You have every right to blame me-"

"But I don't. Not really. You're the one who worked out how to keep our-" He hesitates, ears straining for the slightest hint of movement in the forest around them. All he hears are leaves rustling in the breeze, birds shifting above them. "Our _secret_ safe," he decides, erring on the side of caution. "I can't be angry with you for Heaven screwing us over."

He means it as an apology, but Aziraphale only shakes his head.

"I feel a fool, you know. For not realising how hard you had it.” For a moment, the tent is still and silent, the air heavy with words still waiting to be spoken. Crowley waits. "You were so angry. But you kissed me."

"Hardly even a kiss," Crowley murmurs. He’d wanted to kiss him properly, but if he had- well, it was best that he didn’t.

"I treasured it."

Silence falls again. It’s more weighted than before, this pause more pregnant than Crowley has ever been. Aziraphale’s confession is like a magnet, drawing Crowley forward until he can feel Aziraphale’s breath on his own lips. Just one more inch, and they would be kissing. Just a little further- _What am I doing?_

He breaks the silence even as he throws himself backwards, out of danger.

"Sure I can't tempt you to slacking off?"

"You know we can't risk it," Aziraphale whispers, as if he can’t quite muster the breath to speak loudly. "If we're caught, we'll never find them."

"We wouldn't get caught, nobody cares-"

"They could catch us now, and they'd destroy you. Perhaps both of us."

And that is something Crowley will never risk. "All right, angel. I can take a hint. Stay out of trouble."

He blinks out of Aziraphale’s tent and reappears in his own tumbledown keep, a mile or more away from the clearing where Aziraphale has made camp. The purloined blanket is still around his shoulders; Crowley resolves that he will send it back to Aziraphale before dawn. He didn’t mean to take it; it’s an accident that he has it at all, and it does him no good to keep tokens of Aziraphale’s affection.

He spends the night wrapped in it all the same.


	9. Constantinople, 607AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another chapter for you - no Aziraphale in this one, I'm afraid. Also, this story may well end up longer than its companion, just because I keep thinking of extra things to include and I still want to cover the same meetings as in the original, so. Buckle up. And enjoy!
> 
> Historical notes at the end of the chapter.

Crowley drops into her bed in Constantinople with a weary sigh. She’s not sure why Hell has suddenly got a bee in its bonnet about the Pope, but she’s spent the last eighteen months engineering a bit of a power grab for the latest poor sod to take up the mantle. Or whatever it is Popes take up. Between constant - largely miraculous - travel and the effort of not only changing her body to appear male to the new Pope Boniface III and female to Patriarch Cyriacus, but also remembering which was which before Boniface left for Rome, she’d be happy to sleep for a hundred years now that the work is done. Still, she thinks she’s done well; she’s stoked the flames of a rivalry that didn’t previously exist until Boniface has had to bring the might of Rome to bear on Cyriacus’ claim to the title of ‘Universal Bishop’, which Crowley has always secretly thought ridiculous anyway. On top of that - although it won’t be mentioned in her report to Hell - she’s encouraged the Pope’s reform to the selection process, ensuring fair and free elections to the Papal throne for the foreseeable future. All in all, she can be pretty pleased with her work, she thinks.

The problem is that after the best part of two years throwing herself into her work, heart and soul, Crowley now finds herself with time to think. And when she’s left to her thoughts, they invariably wander in one direction.

_ Where are they now? What are they doing? _

She wonders, sometimes, if her child has grown enough to take their place in the Heavenly Host. Sometimes she thinks it would be nice if they grew up to make stars, the way she used to; sometimes she hopes desperately that they have found work in the Heavenly Records Office, an occupation that will ensure anyone who looks upon them thinks of Aziraphale, and not the Fallen One who’d scattered suns across the universe, far beyond human reach. She’d never anticipated that the humans would start telling stories about the ones they could see, not when she was hanging them in whatever pattern pleased her. Now, she wonders if her child sees pictures in the stars, as the humans do. She wonders if they tell stories.

She can’t be cross with Aziraphale; she reached that conclusion long ago. There had been nothing else they could have done. Crowley couldn’t have outrun Hell for long; Aziraphale couldn’t have disobeyed Heaven. They had never had any choice, either of them. But it hurts, not knowing if her child is safe, if at any moment Heaven could be uncovering the truth of their parentage and hurling them Hellward. If her child is, even now, writhing in agony in the deepest pit, trying to drag themself to the edge-

No. She cannot think like this. It will drive her mad, and Crowley cannot afford to be mad. She has to be sharp, always, and on the ball, always, and on the right side of her bosses,  _ always. _ She cannot give them any reason to start digging around for dirt on her, because what they will find is her child. That can’t be allowed to happen.

Aziraphale presents an obvious security risk, in that he knows her secret and belongs to her enemies, but she doesn’t think he’ll do anything to harm their child. He has been surprisingly stoic about everything; his questions, when he has ventured them, have largely been about Crowley. Logistical questions, about her choice of birthing-place - if, indeed, she can call it a choice - and emotional questions, about her feelings towards him. About the state of their friendship.

He doesn’t seem to have many questions about their child. He doesn’t seem to have many  _ feelings  _ about their child, for that matter.

Crowley knows that Heaven prefers Aziraphale emotionless, but she’s never before doubted that he  _ has  _ emotions. She still doesn’t, really - of  _ course  _ he feels, she’s  _ seen  _ him grapple with emotions he knows Heaven wouldn’t approve of - but when it comes to their child, he seems oddly detached. Almost cold. On her better days, Crowley’s certain that Aziraphale loves their child as much as she does, that he feels the loss as deeply as she feels it.

In her lower moments, she wonders if he cares at all.

Perhaps it’s just different, for him. She carried the child halfway across the world and back - albeit unknowingly, for the most part - endured hours of agony to bring them into the world. She spoke to them, not knowing if they could hear her. She got attached, over all those months. Aziraphale didn’t have that chance; he could only have spent a matter of minutes, perhaps an hour, with their child before giving them over to Heaven. She’d felt sorry for him at the time - to have and love and lose so soon, all in one day - but now she wonders if it made it all easier, somehow. If barely having something made it easier to give away.

She doesn’t like this line of thinking, and she is tired. She makes her report to hell, finds a relatively nice cave to curl up in, and sleeps for sixty-eight years.

When Crowley emerges, he’s ready to cause some chaos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical References: In 606 Pope Boniface III was elected to the Papacy, but didn't actually return to Rome from (then) Constantinople for most of a year. In his very short papacy he made it forbidden (on pain of excommunication) to discuss a Pope's successor while he was living, an attempt to ensure that the elections of new Popes were free, fair, and unprejudiced by the previous Pope's feelings on the matter. He also managed to get Byzantine Emperor Phocas to sign a decree establishing that the Bishop of Rome was the 'Universal Bishop', putting paid to the claim of Patriarch Cyriacus to the same title. This is, admittedly, all based on Wikipedia, so I apologise if it's incorrect or lacks nuance! Liberties have, of course, been taken in the narrative itself.


	10. Ray, 1019 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexual content ahead! Anyway. Historical notes at the end. Enjoy.

Crowley leaves the Yalu River only when she’s certain the worst is over; regardless of what she told Aziraphale in their last exchange of letters, peace has - until very recently -  _ not  _ featured heavily in the events she’s been interfering with. The trouble with humans is that they get very wound up very quickly, and then it’s an almighty headache to get them to calm down again.

She arrives in Ray under cover of darkness and makes straight for the angelic presence shining out like a beacon in the night. It’s definitely Aziraphale; she’d know that sense of warmth anywhere. He’s the only angel whose presence never  _ burns. _ She tries not to think too hard about why that might be. She tries not to wonder if the trait is hereditary, or if their child will grow up to burn just as fiercely as all the other angels.

When she finds Aziraphale, he is sitting outside, gazing up at the stars she helped to make so long ago. She can’t resist the opportunity to play a little mischief; with a snap of her fingers, she’s dressed in beggar’s rags. She keeps her mind firmly on the trick she’s playing, and not on another time when she’d dressed as such a woman.

"Alms, kind sir?"

"Of course, here." He passes her a handful of coins without really looking, and she laughs, delighted that her little game has worked. She’s not disappointed by his lack of recognition; of course she isn’t.

"Too easy. Don't you know me by now, angel?"

Aziraphale turns, and his eyes sparkle. His whole face, in fact, seems lit from within, and for a moment Crowley allows herself the small vanity of imagining it’s for her.

"Crowley. You fiend. What are you doing here?"

"Finished in Korea. Been wandering. Wanted to see you."

"Oh." His smile falters, and she frowns in response; what has she done? She doesn’t think she’s said anything to alarm or upset him, not yet anyway. But something has made him uncertain. "Something I can help you with?"

"Nothing in particular," Crowley shrugs, taking a seat at his side. "Unless you've got any news."

"No. I did actually ask, today, but Gabriel-"

"He wouldn't answer?" It comes out as almost a squeak of concern, even as she realises that Gabriel is probably the reason for Aziraphale’s anxiety.

"He had to leave," he soothes, "another angel needed to make a report. The archangels are very busy, he probably didn't even hear me as he left."

That’s a little reassuring, even if it doesn’t quite settle her nerves. She does her best to focus on the new information, expressing nothing more intense than her usual curiosity.

"There are other angels on Earth now?"   
"Not on a regular basis,” Aziraphale tells her. “Some of the Ninth Choir will be popping down as part of learning about Earth, so do be a dear and leave them alone. They're not in any way prepared to deal with your antics - and they are pursuing knowledge."

"Hmm, well, I know how you like to encourage the pursuit of knowledge." Crowley fixes him with a challenging look. "What's in it for me?"

"Anything you want." His eyes meet hers, and there’s fire in them. A distinctly  _ earthly  _ sort of fire. "I'm entirely at your disposal."

"Oh." Crowley hesitates, for a moment; he can’t mean what she’s thinking. Can he? She licks her lips, giving him plenty of warning that her mind is in the gutter. "Anything?"

"Whatever you might want from me." Aziraphale nods, then - oh, heaven - drags his gaze down her body and back up again. She feels it like a physical touch. "Anything at all." He seems to mean it. If she wants him, she can have him. And against all logic, against all reason, against every shred of self-preservation she ought to have, Crowley wants him.

They stumble into Aziraphale's bedroom, but Crowley barely registers her surroundings. She tugs him forward, wraps her arms around him and hesitates, her lips a breath from his, suddenly uncertain.  _ Can  _ he really be suggesting what he seems to be suggesting? Can he really want what she wants? While she’s still trying to work up the courage to close the gap between them or step back and ask the question, he kisses her and her mind stops working altogether.

His lips barely brush hers before she’s pulling him closer, trying to relieve him of his clothes. She spares a thought to changing her Effort; until now, it’s been what people might expect to see as she wanders the world as a woman - not that she makes a habit of showing it off - but now it resembles Adam’s anatomy rather than Eve’s. It springs to attention as she presses forward, meeting Aziraphale’s answering stand, and Aziraphale lets out a quiet grunt of surprise. Crowley pulls away, even though it’s the last thing she wants to do.

"Do you want me? Like this?" Last time, she had been different; it's why she changed, but now she's afraid he won't like it. Maybe he wants a faithful recreation of their last intimate encounter. "I know you said  _ anything _ , but-"

"I always want you," he whispers, and he almost sounds like he means it. He reaches out for her and she goes willingly, clothes vanishing along with the distance between them. "Fuck, Crowley."

"That's the general idea."

She reaches down, trailing her fingers over hot flesh - but she’s barely closed her hand around him and made a couple of exploratory movements when he slips free of her grasp and drops to his knees.    
"Angel-?" But her concerns melt away as he takes her into his mouth, the wet heat of it sending shivers up her spine. Her hips hitch without her say-so, her spine arching under his tender ministrations. Her hands move of their own accord, her fingers burying themselves in his hair, and he groans around her. She hisses in answer. "Ssssss- ffff-  _ angel-" _

It’s unbearably erotic, the hungry way he’s giving her pleasure, the noises he makes, the way he feels. It’s not long before he has her gasping, right on the edge. "Gonna come, angel."

Aziraphale hums again and carries on, and it feels so good but she can’t, she  _ can’t- _

"Sssssstop."

He draws back, horrified, but she can’t explain just yet; she doesn’t have the words. She turns away, legs shaking, and uses her own hand to finish the job. As she comes undone, she’s looking over her shoulder, right into his eyes. He looks confused, but sated, eyes dark and wide and fixed on her; she feels the heady combination of arousal and adrenaline and the sheer, heady shock of  _ survival  _ before she spills over her own hand and her knees buckle.

She settles on the floor and pauses to catch her breath, miracling the mess from her hand as soon as she has the brainpower to do so. She's done it - they've done it - it's not  _ safe,  _ the two of them in the same room will never be safe, but while they're here they might as well make the most of it. And now they  _ can,  _ because neither of them is at risk of pregnancy as long as they don't spend in or on one another. At least, that's the human way of things; their corporations are human, and Crowley's pregnancy followed human rules, so this… they can have this, and they can have it without fear.

"Crowley?" His voice reaches her as if in a dream; she turns to him, smiling.

"The humans worked it out. Years ago." He looks worried, for some reason, but hearing about human cleverness always cheers him up. This time, though, it doesn't.

"Worked what out?" She realises, suddenly, that he's dressed, and like the first humans in the Garden all those years ago, she hurries to clothe herself too. She dresses for her next assignment; she ought to get moving. But first she wants to share her revelation with her angel. The opportunity to deliver good news is so rare in her line of work.

"If we don't mix," she tells him, aware that she's smiling broadly and too happy to try to stop. "It can't happen again."

But Aziraphale looks as though he's just been punched in the gut. 

"No more sex," he blurts out, and suddenly the reason for his change in mood is all too clear. How could she have ever thought he might want more than friendship from a demon? Perhaps her face betrays her surprise, because his twists in displeasure. "Strictly platonic, from now on. This… I'm sorry for my mistake." 

She presses her lips together firmly; she will not fall apart. She can take rejection. She's been rejected by much mightier people than him, after all. 

"Agreed. I have to go." And she makes for the door. She's almost reached it when he stops her.

"Crowley. Are we still friends?"

"We are an  _ angel _ and a  _ demon _ ," she sneers, and she should leave it at that, leave  _ him  _ at that - but she values her angel's friendship too much. At least he still wants that; her lips twitch upwards into a real smile. "Of course we are. Look after yourself, angel."

"You too, my dear."

Crowley leaves, and goes to not cry somewhere else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical References: Crowley's been interfering in the Goryeo-Khitan War, but I've absolutely cocked up my dates and details, so please don't pay too much attention to that. Sorry! And Aziraphale is just enjoying the cultural riches of Persia.


	11. Coventry, 1054AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters really might slow down after this one, but since I know I'm busy tomorrow I thought I'd get this one up asap.
> 
> Historical references at the end.

Crowley is very aware of how much is at stake as he slowly, carefully coaxes the pieces of his plan into place. He and Aziraphale have agreed to stay out of one another's way in the past, for short spells, but this is the first time he's managed to convince Aziraphale to let him take on the work for both of them. Crowley isn't sure why it matters so much - he will never _admit_ why it matters so much - but he wants them to be able to trade jobs, and the only way that's going to work is if this first trial run goes smoothly.

That's why, hours after needling Leofric into setting his wife a ridiculous dare in exchange for her people's happiness, Crowley is sitting in Godiva's chambers in the guise of a travelling cunning-woman.

"You should accept the challenge," he tells her firmly, "your people will love you for it. They can hardly live, taxed as they are now."

"But to ride through the streets, _naked_ \- I can't. I can't do it. Oh, but I must-"

"Accept the challenge," Crowley insists, "and I'll ride in your place."

Godiva stares at him. "You- you would do that?" For a moment, her eyes fill with hope- and then her face falls. "My husband will know. We look nothing alike."

"I can cloud his perception, just for the day." She doesn't look convinced, so he uses a tiny miracle to pull the last of his supply of tea leaves from a pouch on his belt. "Just sprinkle these onto his food the night before."

Godiva takes the leaves and falls silent for a while, no doubt weighing the decision carefully. 

"The people will think they've seen me naked. I'll lose face, they're supposed to respect me-"

"Then forbid them to look."

"But if-"

"Your hair." It comes to him suddenly, an idea born out of desperation. Crowley is an expert in birthing things from desperation. "It's long enough to cover you, if you were sat on a horse, isn't it?"

"Well- yes, probably, but-"

Crowley shakes his head and his hair, formerly curled around his shoulders, falls to his ankles like a cloak. "We can do this, my lady. For your people. Shall we?"

Lady Godiva looks down at the leaves in her hand, looks up at Crowley, and hesitates.

"I don't hold with witchcraft... but no witch has this power. Who are you?"

Crowley, even working on Aziraphale's behalf, cannot claim to be an angel. But he can tell misleading truths with the best of them.

"I have knelt directly before God's throne. I have sung praises in Heaven, and the Almighty has looked upon me and smiled." It's painful, that last confession - but it works.

"Then I'll do it. Who am I to doubt an angel?" And she sinks to her knees before him, head bowed in reverence. 

"Oh, no, don't do that. Really, don't."

The tea leaves, of course, have no effect on Leofric except to make his food taste slightly bitter, which is no worse than he deserves, and while he is distracted by the odd flavour Crowley works the miracle required to make him think the demon is his wife. Then he rides through the shuttered town, the saddle chafing his bare skin, and secures the tax relief Leofric has promised.

He meets Aziraphale in a tavern that night, proud of a job well done, and finds that the angel won't meet his eye.

"Well done. A masterful temptation, and you tricked an angel into the bargain."

"I- sorry, tricked-?"

"Spreading lust, while I sat by and watched."

"I just spared the people of Coventry a crippling and unjust tax, meaning they'll be happier _and_ not starve, giving them more time to do good. They owe Lady Godiva a great debt, and she is a pious woman, so to thank her they will redouble their devotion to-" He gestures vaguely upwards. "So _you're welcome._ And you weren't supposed to be watching."

"Watching-?" Aziraphale's face flushes red, all of a sudden, as he catches Crowley's meaning. "Of course I- why would I-? We _talked_ about this, Crowley. We both know where we stand."

"Right. Yeah." Of course Aziraphale wouldn't have looked out when he heard the whisperings of the townsfolk, when he sensed a demonic presence in the street and put two and two together. "Didn't mean to suggest anything _scandalous_ , it's just you said-"

"Figuratively! I meant- well, it's of no consequence. There was plenty of scandalous behaviour going around, anyway, your side should be as pleased as mine."

"Well, of course. That was the plan, wasn't it?" He's surprised, actually; he hadn't given his own job much thought while hatching his plan. He’d planned to upend some market stalls later, get people blaming each other, but it stands to reason that even his attempts at goodness contain the seeds of their own destruction. "Think you'll earn some sort of reward?"

"Oh, it would be nice to think so, but I wouldn't count on it." Aziraphale frowns. "Why, was there something you wanted?"

_Was there something I wanted? Only the same thing I've longed for above all else for the last millennium._ How can Aziraphale not see it? How can he not want it too? Crowley forces himself to remain calm, to keep his voice steady and measured as he answers the question with another question.

"Might they let you see the child?" He doesn't say _my,_ or _your,_ or _our_. He doesn't accuse, doesn't emphasise the way they are all three inextricably linked, even as they are worlds apart.

"Oh. Oh, Crowley." His expression turns soft and sad and tells him all he needs to know; Crowley is already standing as he reaches for his hand, and the movement takes him out of the angel's reach before he can realise what Aziraphale is doing. He's offering comfort, and Crowley doesn't want it, not when Aziraphale has already made it very clear that he doesn't feel for Crowley the way Crowley feels for him. "I didn't think you'd be happy if I _did_ see them, since you can't."

"Of course one of us should." And it has to be Aziraphale; while their child is in Heaven, he alone has any chance of visiting. "Just tell me about it."

"Of course; I'll ask Gabriel when I get a chance," Aziraphale promises, and Crowley leaves before he can succumb to the urge to scream - at Aziraphale, at the injustice of it all, at God Herself. 

He screams at a pear tree in a nearby orchard, instead, and it fruits four months early out of sheer terror. Crowley picks one and eats it on the road out of town. It's a little sweet for his tastes; Aziraphale would probably enjoy it.

He wonders, not for the first time, if their child likes pears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical References: It's more mythology really but this is the story of Lady Godiva, who rode through Coventry naked, with only her long hair to preserve her modesty, in order to secure a tax relief for her people. Rather her than me. If you want Aziraphale's perspective on it, it's more or less the same as the relevant section of [The Coventry Affair](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20491973) but with a little more knowledge of what he's not seeing and an unhealthy dollop of self-loathing.


	12. St Albans, 1257AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't got round to answering all your comments yet - I appreciate them and I will reply as soon as I can!
> 
> Historical notes at the end. Enjoy!

Crowley is overworked, overtired, and over the whole declaring-things-heretical thing. He's been stuck in Paris for Satan knows how long, and it's miserable work, but Hell is breathing down his neck and Crowley doesn't dare abandon his task.

Of course, that all changes when a note in Aziraphale's handwriting appears on his desk.

_ Need help. Urgent. Please come now. _

He drops everything and rushes to Aziraphale's aid.

"Angel?" Crowley bursts out of the ether already asking questions. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, Crowley. Thank- I mean- I'm so glad you're here."

“Of course I’m here. Is it-? Has something-?”

“They’re going to kill each other, Crowley, we have to intervene.”

Crowley falters; that doesn’t make sense. If Aziraphale is talking about their child, who is the other party? Aziraphale would tell him that, he’s sure. And if Aziraphale is talking about their child, surely he knows there’s no need to tell Crowley to intervene. Crowley would do anything to keep their child safe,  _ anything. _ Aziraphale must know that.

It follows, therefore, that this is not about their child.

But Crowley has to check.

“Angel. Is this-? Are  _ they-?” _

Aziraphale frowns for a moment, obviously trying to process that into something with meaning, and then his eyes go wide. “Oh! Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Crowley, I didn’t mean to frighten you- I don’t know any more than I ever did, I’m afraid, but as far as I know the, ah, secret, is safe.”

“Right.” Crowley takes a deep, steadying breath.  _ They’re not in danger.  _ “Then why am I here?”

“It’s Henry. King Henry, he’s here in St Albans and he’s taken a fancy to Matthew Paris, the chronicler.”

“Taken a fancy?” Crowley opens his mouth to make a lewd comment, but Aziraphale fixes him with a glare that could curdle milk.

“Not like that,” he tells him sternly, “he’s had him following him around all day, because he likes the idea of having an influence over the way his history is recorded.”

“And that’s a problem?”

“Well, yes. Matthew doesn’t like the idea anywhere near as much, and he disagrees with the king on almost every possible matter of policy. I’ve spent the last sixteen hours trying to keep them from coming to blows, and I’d really appreciate some reinforcements.”

“So call Heaven,” Crowley suggests, “if they want them alive so badly, the least they can do is send you a bit more angel power.”

“Oh, Heaven wouldn’t care in the slightest.” Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “It’s more of a personal interest.”

“Oh.  _ Oh,” _ Crowley repeats, as the possible meaning of that statement occurs to him. “Which is it? The king or the chronicler?”

“Not  _ that  _ kind of personal interest, you fiend.” But Aziraphale is smiling as he says it, and Crowley finds himself smiling back. He is not, he reminds himself firmly, relieved. “I want the history to be written, preferably without being influenced by either the meddling or the  _ death  _ of a king.”

“All right, all right, keep your hair on. What do you want me to do?”

“Well, one of us is going to have to distract Henry, because what I’ve seen of the notes Matthew’s been making was not particularly complimentary. And the other needs to butter Matthew up. Or we can trade off and do both.”

“Fine. You’ve been at this for a day, already, which do you want to take?”

“Matthew. Definitely. Kings do have a tendency to grate on one’s nerves.”

“Don’t I know it,” Crowley grumbles, but he goes along with the plan. Aziraphale does look quite exhausted.

Six days later, angel and demon stand side by side and watch the king’s party depart. The townsfolk of St Albans watch, too, slightly dazed in the wake of the royal visit. Crowley can sympathise.

“He likes the sound of his own voice, doesn’t he?”

“King Henry?” Aziraphale sighs. “He does rather.”

“Just as well he’s king, really, anyone else would get a good kicking if they went on like that all the time.”

“I imagine they would,” Aziraphale agrees.

“His wife must have the patience of a saint.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“And Matthew Paris is  _ not  _ writing kind things about his policies. I mean, I don’t agree with the king’s ideas about a lot of things, but I’m not  _ writing it down _ . It’s just not clever, really, is it?”

“Not for a human living under Henry’s rule, no,” Aziraphale concedes, “though he gets a measure of protection from his religion.”

“Thought your lot weren’t interested?” Crowley raises an eyebrow and Aziraphale sighs again.

“From his  _ monastery.  _ He’s afforded some leeway because he’s a monk. It offers some protection, being connected to the Holy See.”

Crowley digests that for a moment.

“Ugh,” he declares at last.  _ “Politics. _ Are we done now?”

“Oh. Er, yes, unless you wanted to go for a-”

“All I want,” Crowley interrupts, “is to  _ sleep.  _ Possibly for several weeks. Months, even.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale looks almost disappointed. “Yes, well, naturally.”

“See you around, angel.”

He only makes it a few steps before Aziraphale calls out to him.

“Crowley!” He turns to see the angel wringing his hands. “I really didn’t mean to frighten you.”

That wound is a week old; Crowley simply nods and blinks himself away. He really does need to rest. And then, unfortunately, he has his own work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes: The chronicler Matthew Paris was based in St Albans and apparently spent the whole week Henry III was there glued to the King's side, at Henry's request. The published writing that came about as a result was not entirely complimentary, but my cursory Wikipedia trawl found no particular suggestion that they didn't get on - they seem to have been friendly. Divine/infernal intervention to ensure that outcome is entirely my speculation!
> 
> Oh, and in 1258 there was a bit of a rebellion against Henry which Wikipedia suspects was initially backed by Henry's wife. So perhaps that patience finally ran out after all...


	13. Paris, 1277 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy this one! Historical & biblical notes at the end.
> 
> Tw: some pretty deep depression and a minor character pining away without someone, with a suggestion of Crowley considering that perhaps he should also do that. Please take care of yourself if that's likely to be upsetting for you - you can skip between the bolded words "God's tetchiness" and "He appears".

Crowley is whispering ideas into people’s ears, as he has been for  _ decades, _ and feeling thoroughly fed up about it, when all of a sudden the monotony is broken by the unexpected presence of an angelic being. He turns away from his task and seeks it out, wondering what on earth could be so important that it’s brought Aziraphale  _ here, _ where Hell is very much watching him.

He realises his mistake when he walks into the room where the angel is and Aziraphale isn’t there. Instead, an unfamiliar angel locks eyes with him and bristles with fury.

“Demon! Abandon your scheme and leave the humans alone!”

Crowley hesitates, trying to check the stranger’s face against every memory he has of meeting an angel other than Aziraphale. He doesn’t remember having discorporated this angel in the past, nor being discorporated by them, nor crossing their path without being spotted… which means he can’t be sure they’re not his child. The odds are astronomical, but Crowley can’t risk it. He can’t fight. And judging by the rage in the angel’s eyes, he’s about to be discorporated if he doesn’t disappear, fast.

He turns and runs, blinking out of existence to reappear beside a pyramid, then repeating the trick to find himself in a rainforest. Again and again he jumps, the effort it takes exhausting, and the angel is always behind him, just a few moments behind. He blinks himself into a little room and feels a candle licking at his skin before it falls. It takes him a second to realise he’s landed on Aziraphale’s desk.

“Angel- where’s the lassst place an angel would look for me?” He can hear the hiss in his voice and he hates it, but he doesn’t have time to pull himself together. He doesn’t have time for the blank look Aziraphale’s giving him, either. “The last place they’d look for a demon. Quick!”

“Er. Ah. The unicorn’s grave on Mount Ararat, I suppose. They think-”

Crowley blinks out of existence before he can second-guess himself, hoping against all hope that the talk of the mountain’s status as a sacred place has been exaggerated by the infernal rumour mill. He’s fortunate; when he lands, the ground doesn’t burn him. He falls to his knees and gasps for breath, his face just inches from the single cairn of balanced rocks that marks the grave. They haven’t been moved by rain, or wind, or curious travellers; they still stand, like the fallen unicorn’s horn, in silent testament to the damage caused by **God’s tetchiness**.

“You didn’t last long, did you? Poor thing.” Crowley had kept an eye on the unicorn, after the residents of the Ark disembarked; tried to tempt it to eat, tried to keep it company. But it had wandered a while, searching for something it would never find, and when at last it had realised its mate was gone, it had given up. Aziraphale had helped him to carry the fallen creature to the mountain, where its eternal rest would be undisturbed by wild animals or the humans’ resolute attempts to build shelters and communities.

Crowley had stroked its face one last time before they began to shovel dirt into the grave, and prayed that he would never know the pain of being so alone, of losing the one being in the world who was  _ like  _ him, who  _ understood  _ him. Of losing his family. Of losing Aziraphale.

Oh, how little he knew.

“I get it now,” he murmurs, hand pressed into the dirt. “You belonged together, the two of you. Without your soulmate… without your family… it was just too hard. You didn’t have any hope.” He took a deep breath, blinking back the tears that threatened. “But I do. I have to hold onto that. My- our child isn’t gone, they’re just… away. And I’ll never see them, but Aziraphale might. So I have to keep going.” He almost feels as though he should apologise for that. The unicorn had wasted away; shouldn’t Crowley be doing the same?

But he won’t, and a strange sensation as if he’s being tugged back towards Paris reminds him why. He isn’t alone, not in this, not in anything. Not any more. And Aziraphale is calling him back.

**He appears** back in the little room in Paris, careful to avoid the desk this time, and perches timidly on the bed as he takes in his surroundings.

“Is it safe?”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “No, Crowley, I called you back here while Jorael was still around, just to see the sparks fly.”   
“Who?”

“The angel who followed you here. Why on Earth did you come to me?”

“Had to get away. Figured they wouldn’t expect me to get past you. What did you tell them, you discorporated me, or-?” The thought of Aziraphale discorporating him - even as a lie - makes his heart clench uncomfortably, and he doesn’t really want to examine the reasons for that, so it’s a relief when Aziraphale shakes his head.

“They thought they’d followed the wrong miracle signature, and I didn’t correct them. I think it might be best if you take the excuse to leave Paris, though. Abandon these Condemnations you’ve been working on - surely it’s gone on long enough, and it’s not as though you  _ like _ them banning certain knowledge - and let it be.”

Crowley can’t resist the opportunity to challenge him. “Or what? You’ll thwart me?”

“I’d rather not have to.”

“Such sloth, angel.” He grins; he’s been hoping for a way out of this job, anyway. “Suppose your friend’s done me a favour, then. One of the Ninth Choir lot, was it?”

“Yes. Jorael’s given you a rather neat little escape route, if you ask me. You’ve been thwarted, fair and square.”

“Well, I suppose so.”

“Although I hope you realise I’ll be blaming you in my report. The Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, is a much more impressive angel to be run out of town by than Juriel, of the Lowest Choir.”

“Whatever you think is best, dear.” Something in Aziraphale’s tone is off; there’s something his angel wants to explain. “They said you didn’t fight.”

“Of course I didn’t. Did you know this Juriel-”

“Jorael,” Aziraphale interrupts, as if that’s really the issue here, and Crowley waves it off even as he corrects himself.

“Did you know  _ Jorael _ before Anathoth? Because I didn’t. So you  _ know _ why I didn’t fight.”

“Of course  _ I _ know why,” Aziraphale snaps. “But they  _ noticed. _ I don’t want Heaven asking questions, Crowley.”

“Wouldn’t worry. Your side aren’t great at that.” He knows he’s being rude, but he doesn’t want to face up to the possibility that he’s endangering himself and their child by trying to protect them.

“Oh, there’s no talking to you. Just- try to put on a bit of a show, at least, in future. If you really can’t avoid angels altogether.”

Crowley quirks an eyebrow at him. Has he pushed Aziraphale too far? Does he have to leave now? He can feel his shoulders slumping, curling in on himself, and overcorrects by placing his hands behind him instead, the picture of calm.

“Is that a hint? Sick of me already?” And for a moment, his angel looks at Crowley as if he’s something he  _ wants,  _ something delectable that Aziraphale wants to devour. For a moment, Crowley almost thinks Aziraphale might surge forwards and press him back against the bed, kiss him the way Crowley sometimes dreams about. But then he snaps out of it, the way he always snaps out of those dreams, eventually, feeling faintly guilty.  _ Strictly platonic.  _ Aziraphale is talking - what is he saying?

“Not at all.” Well, that’s a relief. Crowley can stay for a bit. “I could use cheering up, actually, if you’ve time for a bottle or two. I hate to see the Lower Choirs so afraid of Falling. Gabriel’s been making jokes about it when they’re late, can you believe it?”

“He jokes about Falling?" That's appalling; it's abhorrent. Even in Hell, they don't joke about Falling. Perhaps especially in Hell. "To scare less important angels? I’ve said it before-”

“Yes, I’m aware of what you think of Gabriel.” Aziraphale reaches under his desk and produces a bottle he must have had stashed there. “Wine?”   
“Yeah, all right.”

Drinking slows Crowley’s mind considerably, which means he can stop overthinking. This is very much a mixed damning.

"Do you think they could have Fallen?" Crowley blurts, and regrets it immediately. Aziraphale, however, just frowns at him.

"Why? Is there a new demon?"

"There are always new demons dragging themselves out of the pits.” Crowley shrugs; it’s not something he likes to dwell on, but since Aziraphale asks… “Stuck there since the Fall, or thrown in there for being exceptionally awful humans. No way to tell if a freshly-fallen angel got mixed in there."

"Then we can't be sure," Aziraphale admits, and he sounds a little wobbly. Crowley feels terrible; what a weight to burden his angel with. Wasn’t it enough that  _ he  _ worried about it? "But I'm almost certain Gabriel would have come down to blame me for it."

"It wouldn't be your fault. That'd be my side coming through. Oh, I never thought I'd say this, but I hope they don't take after me."

"We'd have heard," Aziraphale insists, ignoring Crowley’s maudlin mumblings, and that’s probably for the best. Time passes in idle conversation, in setting the world to rights - or, in Crowley’s case, setting it to wrongs - and exchanging stories from their recent travels.

“Where will you go next?” Aziraphale asks as they sober up, the first rays of the sun creeping across the windowsill to make Crowley squint. He ducks his head and shrugs.

“If I’m trying to shake off a Principality on my tail, I might revisit some old haunts, make a bit of a trip of it. See how long I can dodge Hell for. When shall we meet?”

“I thought we were meeting early next century?”

“Best not, now.” It’s a pity, but it’s not safe to meet too often, and they’re already pushing it. “If you’ve just thwarted me and all. Shall we say the mid-1400s, back here? Unless you need me in the meantime, of course.”

“Oh. Yes, I suppose you’re right. And you’ll come to me if you need help before then?”

“Of course I will. I did today, didn’t I?” Crowley hesitates, hand on the door handle. He doesn’t need to say it. It doesn’t need to be said. It shouldn’t. But- “And if you get news-”

“Right away. Same to you.”

“I won’t. My side doesn’t know anything about it.” A small mercy. “Take care of yourself, angel.”

Then he blinks himself out of existence and reappears back on the mountain. He will finish paying his respects to an old friend, and then he will decide where to go from there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical References: Crowley is in Paris working on the Paris Condemnations, which is a lot of declaring various things heretical. Aziraphale is also in Paris, keeping a safe distance and copying books using the relatively new _pecia_ system, which he may have had a hand in bringing from Italy.
> 
> Biblical References: Mount Ararat is traditionally where the Ark landed. They buried the last unicorn there.


	14. Onley, 1351 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a miserable one, I'm afraid. Crowley really didn't like the fourteenth century. 
> 
> TW for plague and death, I completely understand if you don't want to read that under the circumstances, you won't miss anything significant if you skip it.
> 
> Historical notes at the end. Enjoy!

The fourteenth century is a long, hard slog without Aziraphale to distract him. Crowley flits about the world, from acres of withered crops and piles of plague-ridden bodies to bloodstained battlefields and back again. Everywhere he goes, death seems to stare back at him, and where there is death there are mourners.

Crowley has never felt so understood, and he hates it.

He brings what comfort he can to those who have lost loved ones to disease or war, but he knows all too well that there is nothing he can do to heal those emotional wounds. A man turns to him, as they stand and watch the bodies of his family loaded onto carts and wheeled away for burial, and holds out his hands, imploring.

“What am I to do, without my wife and children?”

Crowley wishes he had a better answer.

“You keep going,” he tells him softly, “you live the best you can, every day, until you can see them again.”

“But I will see them again? After my death?” And Crowley doesn’t know for sure, not really; it’s not his department, that. He doesn’t get to decide where people go or what happens to them once they’re there. But this man needs hope, and Crowley is the only one available to give it to him.

“We just have to hope so.” And something like understanding crosses the man’s face; he nods solemnly in acknowledgement of a shared misery.

“We will see our loved ones again,” he tells Crowley, certain now, and Crowley carefully doesn’t point out that the man will surely find out soon. The plague has not been well contained in this village; Crowley would be surprised if anybody lasts more than a week, but at least they aren’t spreading it any further. They are all far too sick to travel, now.

When he’s buried the last of the bodies, he leaves, hoping against all hope that the man has been reunited with his family. Hoping that Crowley will one day be reunited with his own. It doesn’t seem likely, any more, with Aziraphale out of Crowley’s reach. He could call him, he knows, could follow his own innate sense of Aziraphale and be at his side in a heartbeat, but it’s dangerous. Even if Heaven and Hell don’t catch them together, there’s the risk of Crowley forgetting himself and trying to get too close.  _ Strictly platonic.  _ Until he can remember that, it’s best they limit their interactions as much as possible.

By the 1370s, however, he’s beginning to reach the end of his endurance. Hell is taking something of a hands-off approach, no doubt having realised how much  _ work  _ it was to keep such a close eye on him in Paris during the previous century. He’s glad of the break - although of course he has a few reports ready to go in case he’s asked - but he’s also desperately lonely. He hasn’t spoken to anyone but humans in a century, and while humans are all well and good in their own right, they don’t last long. They don’t  _ remember _ things the way he and Aziraphale do.

He writes a brief letter, miracling it to wherever Aziraphale is. It’s a simple message, short and to the point. Well, not to the point. There isn’t a point, except that he wants to talk to his friend, and he thinks his message gets that across.

_ Two Popes. Do you have any idea how much stuff a Pope can consecrate? It’s a lot. The last thing we need is two of them. What’s next, three Popes? _

Aziraphale’s reply is just as short, but no less welcome for that.

_ A preposterous idea. Only one of them is the true Pope, of course. It’s simply a matter of knowing which. _

Crowley scoffed at that, reading between the lines.

_ Do you know which? _

The reply is even shorter this time.

_ I’m an angel! _

No, then. Aziraphale doesn’t have a clue who the real Pope is. Still, they can’t keep miracling pieces of paper across the globe to talk about it. Time to make some plans.

_Where shall we meet?_ _Where are you?_

Aziraphale’s reply comes swiftly; perhaps the angel misses Crowley, too.

_ Former Vladimir-Suzdal. Cold up here, you might want to meet somewhere warmer. Where are you? _

Crowley smiles to himself; Aziraphale is right. He hates the cold. It is the sort of thing one might expect a nemesis to know after nearly five and a half thousand years, but knowing he remembers still makes Crowley feel a little less alone.

_ Castille. How about Rome, for a meeting-place? There’s got to be some decent wine there by now. _

Aziraphale agrees, and they agree to aim for the slightly earlier time of 1430, and Crowley goes back about his business with a new spring in his step. For now, he is alone, but soon he will see Aziraphale again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes: the fourteenth century featured famine and The Black Death, there were significant wars going on in various places, and there were, for a while, two rival Popes (which would be a normal medieval Tuesday except that neither of these was really an Antipope - they were both selected through the proper channels, a couple of months apart). And bad news for Crowley - in 1409, for a few months, there really were three Popes.
> 
> Onley is a Deserted Medieval Village in England. It's highly unlikely that it was actually wiped out by the Black Death, but I'm allowed a little artistic licence, right? Historical inaccuracies are bound to happen.
> 
> Oh - and at the time of exchanging letters in the 1370s, Aziraphale is in the Duchy of Moscow, modern day Russia, and Crowley is in what is now Spain.


	15. Domrémy, 1428 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Another grim little extra. Sorry.
> 
> TW for minor (historical) character death, specifically burning, so be aware of that. Historical notes at the end.

Crowley doesn’t make it to Rome. He’s on his way through France when he senses angelic activity and - like a fool - drifts towards it to see if there’s any meddling to be done.

He finds Jeanne.

She is spinning wool when he first crosses her path, but she looks up at him with a gaze that seems to penetrate his dark glasses without difficulty.

“You’re lost, aren’t you?”

“I know exactly where I am,” he tells her, lying through his teeth, and she laughs.

“That’s not what I meant. We’ll meet again, I think. It’s no accident that brought you here.”

He shrugs that off and leaves, searching out the angelic presence that seems to have vanished, but he soon realises that it’s a fruitless endeavour and doubles back. Jeanne is waiting for him, a small bag of possessions at her side.

“I wondered if you’d make it before I left. I’m going to the royal court.”

“What do you mean, it’s no accident?”

“The archangel Michael visits me often,” Jeanne tells him, “to give me my orders from above. I assume you’re here to try to stop me.”

“That depends,” Crowley tells her, stalling for thinking time. Michael? Michael doesn’t visit Earth, never has, not since the beginning. What is she doing interfering with a random French girl? “What are your orders?”

“To lead the army to glorious victory over the English, of course,” Jeanne tells him, and in her eyes he sees that most potent of poisons, faith. Unwavering faith in Heaven, the kind he used to have, the kind Aziraphale still clings to.

“The battlefield’s no place for a civilian.” He looks around at their peaceful surroundings and sighs. “Especially one from such a sheltered place as this.”

“This village has been raided, many times. Once, it was burned.” Jeanne shrugs. “I will fight for the righteous cause of our Lord, and for France.”

Crowley frowns; she’s young, this girl. Too young to die. And die she will, in another of the pointless, petty squabbles the humans so love to get caught up in. Not to mention-

“Have you, er, have you told anyone about seeing Michael?”

“I will tell the Dauphin himself, if I can reach him.”

“They’ll call you a witch,” Crowley tells her bluntly, “or think you’re mad.”

“God is on my side,” Jeanne tells him serenely, and that seems to be an end to the conversation. Crowley can’t bear to watch her throw her life away for whatever scheme Michael’s cooked up, so he walks away.

They meet again, a few times, as Jeanne finds her way to the French court, through an investigation into her piety, and then on to the battlefield. Crowley isn’t  _ following  _ her, as such, but Michael is up to something and it follows, therefore, that Crowley ought to try to counter it. Jeanne always greets him politely, always tells him he’s lost, and it takes him a couple of meetings to work out that she means  _ demon _ . She never says  _ demon _ , though, just  _ lost _ . In her mind, he is an angel who has strayed from the flock, one who might still return one day. He tries to use that to influence her, to convince her not to put herself in danger, but she will not be swayed.

“I have my orders from God,” she tells him, “and I will follow them.”

She fights the English, and Crowley watches from the edge of the fray, and she wins and wins, holding her banner high as the French army roar towards victory. When, at last, a truce is called, he hopes this is the end of it, that Michael - whom he has now seen come and go on a couple of occasions, thankfully from a distance - has got what she wants. But then Jeanne begins writing letters, urging dissidents to return to the Catholic church and even asking the English to join her in marching on Bohemia to wipe out heretics there. She is stirring a hornet’s nest, making powerful people nervous, humiliating them by the mere fact of being a fierce and righteous woman, and though Crowley begs her to stop, she never does.

Afraid that Heaven does not care enough to protect Jeanne - so young, and so determined, and so full of life - Crowley turns to Aziraphale. The angel is already in Rome, ready for their meeting the following year, and it doesn’t take much energy to urge him to France instead.

“What’s wrong?” Aziraphale seems flustered. “Is- have you heard something-?”

“It’s- no, not them, it’s- she’s just a girl, just a young girl, and Michael’s been messing with her head-”

“I can’t work against Michael, Crowley-”

“Please! Her work’s done, she’s forced the English to a truce, she’s done what you wanted.” He realises his mistake the moment he’s said it; he does not blame Aziraphale for this. For any of it. “What Heaven wanted.”

Aziraphale regards him for a long while, then sighs.

“What is it you would have me say?”

“Tell her she’s done enough. Tell her to go home. She’ll listen to you.”  _ She won’t listen to me, _ he doesn’t have to say; Aziraphale simply nods and goes to speak with her. He spends all night trying to persuade her that her work is done, but when he returns to Crowley it is with an apology.

“She says her work is not done while heretics live and heresies flourish. Michael has told her this work will last her whole life.”

“She’s not going to  _ have  _ much life if she keeps-”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I’ve done all I can. I can’t risk any more. We must trust that Michael will protect her.”

Crowley doesn’t have any polite response to that, so he just nods and lets Aziraphale go.

The truce breaks, and Jeanne heads back into the thick of the fighting. In Compiègne, she remains with the rearguard as the rest of the army retreat, and is pulled from her horse - captured by Englishmen with many reasons to resent her. Crowley follows her still, follows as she attempts to escape, slows her fall with his own wings as she leaps from a seventy foot tall tower onto the earth below. She thanks Heaven for her deliverance even as she is dragged back inside, and Crowley cannot make her understand that Heaven doesn’t  _ care _ about her, that Michael  _ doesn’t care. _

There are several attempts to rescue Jeanne from English hands when she is moved to Rouen, but rumours of Michael echo around the city and Crowley dares not risk running into her. She stays with Jeanne, since Michael doesn’t seem to be visiting there - at least, not physically, though Jeanne dreams of her often - and hopes the rumours of Michael travelling with the rescuers are true. He hopes against all hope, against all logic and reason and everything he knows of Michael, that Heaven means to save the girl whose life it has so thoroughly uprooted.

The rescuers are unsuccessful, and Crowley stands unseen behind Jeanne to watch her stand a farcical trial. She’s convicted of heresy and cross-dressing and sentenced to death, and all the while she stands firm in her faith. Crowley almost envies her that conviction, except that it’s going to get her killed. Even the night before her death, when Crowley begs her to let him fly her out of there, she refuses.

“If God wants me to live, I will live,” she tells him, “and if not, I place my life into His hands gladly.”

“But I-”

“I would rather die than be lost,” she counters quietly, and it’s such a slap that Crowley almost leaves her to her fate. He doesn’t, though. She doesn’t deserve to die alone.

It’s a beautiful May morning, but the scent of blossom on the air is soon replaced by smoke and fire and that terrible stench of death. No miraculous rescue comes, and the hastily-made cross tucked inside Jeanne’s dress keeps Crowley powerless, prevents him from helping her. Jeanne meets his eye, just once, as the pyre is lit, and he knows she’s glad he can’t help.  _ I would rather die than be lost. _ He hates it, but he understands.

When she is gone, there is nothing left of her. No bones to bury, her ashes thrown into the Seine. Crowley watches until the end, wings curled around himself to hide his tears from human view, and then disappears. He doesn’t go to Rome to meet Aziraphale; he doesn’t go to Hell. He holes up in a cold, miserable part of the world and he cries, and screams, and rages against Heaven. Against angels cruel enough to use a young woman and cast her aside, against the God who let them do it, against humanity’s stubborn refusal to do  _ better.  _ Against his own inability to protect the young and powerless, against his own heart that urges him to try at all.

When Hell finds him, it’s to give him a commendation for - of all things - a vicious crusade against heresy, and once he gets a look at the Inquisition he’s being rewarded for, he doesn’t stop drinking for three full weeks. Then he throws off the shape that had cared for Jeanne, that had claimed credit for the Inquisition, and takes up his femininity as if it can keep out the memories.

She goes where she’s sent; she goes to London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical References: I've obviously taken some liberties but tried to keep relatively close to Jeanne's actual timeline - she is, of course, better known as Joan of Arc. And she really did throw herself out of a tower and survive, though probably due to the softness of the ground rather than a low-flying Demon Crowley.
> 
> I also suspect that had the real historical figure met a demon, she'd have sent it packing in short order, but this is Crowley and I preferred it this way.


	16. London, 1483 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry - took a little detour through some rarepairs and here I am, very late with an update. Enjoy!
> 
> Historical notes at the end.

Crowley has been amusing herself by stirring up petty rivalries between courtiers for nearly a year when King Edward IV is taken ill and, with minimal procrastination, dies. His court immediately descends into a chaos beyond any Crowley has been able to create, and as Crowley listens to the worried whispers and - on occasions - shouts of those closest to the late king, she realises there's potential for even more nonsense as the throne passes to Edward's young son, now Edward V. The boy is said to be racing back from Shropshire with his retinue, but when he arrives he is with his uncle, Richard, formerly in York. The new king's mother seems to have taken her other children and made herself scarce, so it's just as well young Edward's uncle is around to support him. Or so Crowley thinks. 

Plans soon get underway for a coronation - excellent, Crowley loves parties, she can cause untold havoc at this sort of shindig - and the young king moves into the Tower of London. That seems odd to Crowley, but it's tradition, and Edward seems happy enough, even sending for his younger brother to keep him company.

Then the coronation is postponed for a second time, this time indefinitely, and rumours abound that the boy king is now a prisoner in his own fortress. This, it seems, is _not_ traditional. Many of the courtiers Crowley has got to know over her time in court were expecting a takeover bid of sorts, but in the usual fashion - the boy's uncle serving as regent until he's old enough to rule alone and pulling the strings of his puppet king. Nobody expected the boys to be imprisoned.

"How long does he intend to keep them there?" Crowley's favourite gossip asks in hushed tones, and nobody in earshot seems to have an answer to that.

Crowley doesn't wait for an answer; she sneaks into the Tower and introduces herself to the young king. They’re scared, both boys are - they’ve grown up royal, they know full well that succession is never guaranteed. That _survival_ and succession go hand in hand, and they can’t depend on either.

“I don’t know who to trust,” Edward tells her quietly, once Richard has cried himself to sleep on her shoulder, desperate for any kind face and the comfort she can offer. “I’d ask you to take a message, but…”

“I understand.” And Crowley does; Hell is one big mess of not knowing who to trust, and in such situations it’s better to trust nobody at all. She spreads her wings wide, blocks the whole cell from mortal notice, and settles in for a long stay. “I’ll stay with you, if you don’t mind.”

Edward regards her thoughtfully, and for a moment she thinks he’s seen the wings, unfolded into the ether though they are. That pensive frown does not belong on a twelve-year-old’s face.

“Thank you,” he decides at last, and Crowley feels a sudden warmth in her heart, as though she’s passed a test she didn’t even realise she was taking.

She waits a while for the world to forget about the boys, who have been declared illegitimate to smooth their uncle’s way to the throne, and then she reaches out for Aziraphale with her essence. He arrives promptly, looking slightly ruffled, and she explains the situation to him.

"This is nothing to do with Heaven, and Hell don't care what I'm doing right now. I'm worried about these children, Aziraphale, they're in danger. The thing is, if I leave…”

“Anything could happen. Yes, I see.” Aziraphale glances at her wings, the only things keeping the boys shielded and safe. “It’s going to be hard to get them out of here.”

“Nah, that’s the easy bit.” Crowley sighs. “Making them disappear, that’s going to be tricky. He’s the rightful king of England. We’ll have to get them pretty far away.”

“Hm.” Aziraphale hesitates, and Crowley knows what he’s going to say before he says it. “Ought we to interfere? This is a human problem, human history-”

“It’s not history yet, angel. And I’m not letting kids get hurt if I can help it.” She glances across at the two brothers, sleeping close together as if to keep each other safe. “Will you help me save them?”

“Of course- oh, _really,_ Crowley. Of course I will.”

It takes some time; Crowley stays with the boys, keeps them company and plays their games with them and tells them stories. She gives them food, now that their gaolers have forgotten them, and by the time Aziraphale gets the arrangements in place she feels terribly protective of them.

They’re not her children, of course; they have a mother, far away, and she has a child, far away too. Perhaps, just for this moment, they’re the best each other can do.

There’s a knock on the door. She checks her charges are still sleeping, then peers suspiciously through the barred window. It’s Aziraphale; of course it is, she knew he was coming after his check-in with Heaven. But she doesn’t dare take any risks. She swings the door open as quietly as she can.

"Angel. How was it?" It’s barely a whisper; Aziraphale glances over at the sleeping princes and matches her volume.

"Fine. Disappointing. I asked to see them again."

"And?" But the answer is clearly written on his face.

"He refused. I couldn't ask him any more, not in front of Iaoth. One of the Ninth Choir Earth students - I think Iaoth technically reports to Michael, but she wasn't planning a visit, so Gabriel brought them."

"Poor sod, stuck with Michael. That utter wanker." She knows better than this; Aziraphale won’t stand for too much griping about his superiors, and he’s likely to go off in a snit if she goes on. She can’t help it, though. It just seems to burst out of her. She loathes them, for the way they treat the people who obey them, look up to them, adore them. For the way they treated Jeanne. For the way they treat Aziraphale. For the way she fears they treat their lost child.

"Crowley! Little ears."

"They've heard worse, angel. And they're asleep."

"You're still upset about what happened with Jeanne."

"Yes, I bloody well am. Messing with the poor girl's mind like that - and no matter how hard I tried-" She cuts herself off; there’s no need to admit how hard she’d tried to save her.

Aziraphale, thankfully, lets it go.

"Tonight, do we think, my dear?"

"If everything's ready. This is no place for them. Remind me where they're going."

"An orphanage I know in Doornik," Aziraphale tells her, for the third or fourth time, "a good one, run by good people. There are plenty of orphans on the continent, even English ones, and these two will be the bastard sons of a recently-executed noble. No political use to anyone. They'll be safe, and treated well."

"And nobody here will know what happened to these boys," Crowley concludes. "That'll get tongues wagging. Humans, they love a mystery."

"And you don't?" Aziraphale teases; he’s got her there. He knows her well; of course he does. He always has. "Anyway. I should think this counts as making trouble, if Hell ever finds out."

"They won't. Right. Best get started, then, if you're ready."

"No time like the present."

Crowley wakes the boys as gently as she can, conscious of the fact that this is her last chance to be good to them. To be gentle. To be kind. To be their temporary mother.

"Edward. Richard. I know you're tired, but it's time to go-"

The boys put their cloaks on, and Crowley helps them with the fastenings; Aziraphale seems to have drifted off somewhere, and Crowley’s not sure she likes the tenderness in his gaze. Who is he thinking about? Well, he can think of who he likes, as softly as he likes, but not right now. Right now, Crowley needs his help.

"Any time you want to be helpful, angel," she snaps, and Aziraphale rushes to fuss over shoes and adjust the quality of clothing. By the time he's finished, the boys’ clothes are shabby and outdated - she suspects Aziraphale is incapable of creating clothes that _aren’t_ shabby and outdated - and won’t alert anyone to their royal bloodline. She has to admit, it’s decent work.

"You have to remember your story," Aziraphale tells them, and there’s something paternal in his tone that makes Crowley’s heart ache, "even if you forget us." They will forget Aziraphale and Crowley; it’s safer for all of them if they forget.

"We're Anthony and Richard," Edward tells them promptly; he’s named himself for an uncle, though Crowley’s not sure if he knows that the uncle is dead. Richard’s a little young to remember an alias, but he shouldn’t draw attention. There are a million Richards in the world, after all. "We never met our father, but he was a nobleman who was executed last year." His stoic expression slips a fraction; they really did just recently lose their father.

"And your mother?" Crowley prompts, turning to Richard. He’s only nine, and he’s trying so hard to be brave; Crowley hates to press him on the matter, but he needs to get this right.

"Mary Orme, of Crawley." His lip wobbles and it’s all she can do not to pull him into a hug. "She tried to take us to safety overseas but she died on the way."

"Well done.” Crowley nods and sees Aziraphale mirror the movement. “Your real mother is safe and well, Richard. Remember that."

"But we'll never see her again?"  
"Perhaps not." She gives into the impulse to wrap an arm around each of the boys. "But sometimes we have to stay away from people we love, so they'll be safe. It doesn't mean not loving each other."

Two hours later, Crowley hugs each of the two boys tightly before leaving them at the orphanage. They’ll be safe there, she knows. It’s not the same as losing her child to Heaven; these boys were never hers, and the people looking after them are not her enemy. It’s fine. They’ll be fine.

“Drink?” Aziraphale offers, and Crowley accepts. She accepts a great many drinks, in fact, and suggests several possible theories people might develop about the fate of the two princes.

By midnight, she’s sober again, and alone. That’s all right. Crowley knows how to be alone. She’s had plenty of practice, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical References: The Princes in the Tower. They disappeared without trace shortly after the elder, Edward, was meant to be crowned King Edward V. I'm afraid it's unlikely their story ended happily, but - not unlike Anastasia in more recent years - the mystery captured the popular imagination. Which I can only imagine Crowley would love.


	17. London, 1601 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all. Sorry this is a bit late, I've been busy and also recently learned how to make gifs so I've been a little distracted.
> 
> TW for depression, but nothing too heavy or involved. And, of course, here be smut.
> 
> There aren't actually any historical notes for this one that aren't made very clear in the show, so! Hurrah.

Crowley rigs the coin toss to send Aziraphale to Edinburgh. He tells himself it's the proper, demonic thing to do, but the truth is that he's tired, and he can't seem to muster the energy to care about the proper demonic thing. About his job. About _anything._ He makes _Hamlet_ the roaring success he's promised Aziraphale, and even goes along to see that the crowd is up to his standards, but it only makes him feel worse; of course any attempt to right old wrongs, or better one’s own situation, is doomed to end in tragedy. Crowley should know that by now.

He slinks home to his rooms, half-listening to the noises of the brothel next door through the thin walls, and wishes he could feel some kind of vicarious joy in their pleasure. Instead, he finds himself worrying, wills protection over the place in an attempt to ease his own disconsolate mind. It’s there that Aziraphale finds him, a week after his departure for Scotland, and the angel’s glee is contagious as nobody else’s has been. He is pleased with himself, Crowley can tell, and it stirs a little answering flame in his own heart. Crowley clings to the warmth.

“Honestly, Crowley, you needn’t deliberately pick lodgings in neighbourhoods you think I won’t like. A brothel, really?”

"I don't think your side will be sniffing around here," Crowley corrects him, a little stung, "and my side will only get distracted trying to work out what's going on."

"I wondered, myself," Aziraphale admits, and Crowley listens anew, for a moment. Somebody is indulging their kinky side next door, it seems. Good for them.

"Pain can be very closely tied to pleasure, as it turns out." He pretends to study the letter Aziraphale’s brought him, with all the details he’ll need for his report, and then realises he can’t make out the words with his glasses on. Well, there’s only Aziraphale here; he takes them off and looks again, absent-mindedly finishing his thought. "They're all enjoying themselves."

"You- how can you be sure?"

"Feel it, angel. Besides, that place is under my protection. Nothing but lust and a little greed at play there, believe me. They're enjoying it."

"I thought _you_ were enjoying it, in Ray." Crowley drops the letter. What’s _that_ supposed to mean? And why is Aziraphale bringing it up now? It was mortifying enough the first time. Crowley has no desire to rehash it. But Aziraphale continues, even as his face flushes pink. "I haven't dared to ask, but- would you mind telling me what I did wrong? It's been bothering me for nearly six hundred years."

"What you did wrong?" Crowley frowns at him. "You're the one who decided there'd be no more sex. Were you really that offended that I didn't want you to end up in my position?"

"Your-? You said- you said it couldn't happen again. You said we didn't mix."

"Well, we didn't! I thought I finally had a solution, a way we could go on with it all, and then you decided it was over-"

For an instant, he thinks Aziraphale might yell at him; he feels the serpent within himself uncoil and rear back, ready to strike. Then Aziraphale’s words break through.

_We don't mix… it can't happen again._

Is that what Aziraphale heard, all those years ago? Did he think _Crowley_ was calling a halt to proceedings? He’d just been stating facts, just pointing out that there was a way they could be together… Could it all have been a misunderstanding, all this time?

"Crowley, what did you mean, when you said it couldn't happen again? When you pushed me away?" And to Aziraphale, that must have been what it felt like; how could he know how reluctantly Crowley had wrenched himself from the angel’s grasp? For six hundred years, Crowley has believed Aziraphale didn’t want him, that night. Now it seems that might not be the case.

"I didn't- I- you know what I meant. I couldn't bear it if one of us fell pregnant again, I couldn't lose another child- I didn't want _you_ to go through it, any of it, knowing what would happen. But the humans worked it out, like I told you. If we didn't mix - if neither of us spent inside the other - that couldn't happen." Crowley wrapped his arms around himself, feeling oddly defensive, afraid to get his hopes up.. "And your response was to call the whole thing a mistake."

"I meant- I thought you regretted it! I didn't know what I'd done, I just knew you were unhappy - you were scared - and I was sorry for whatever I'd done wrong to scare you."

There's a long pause as they both process that, the silence broken only by breathy moans and grunts from the room next door.

"You didn't just not want me?" Crowley breathes at last, proud of himself for holding back the hiss.

"You were afraid if you, ah... spent ... in my mouth, I'd fall pregnant?"

Crowley scowls, cheeks hot. "I didn't know quite how things worked, back then. I was afraid we'd believe it into being, somehow. Answer the question."

"I've never stopped wanting you," Aziraphale declares. "Not for a moment. And you-?"

"Never stopped," the demon confirms, the moaning from next door suddenly loud in his ears, all but drowned out by his racing pulse. It’s the sound of lust, intermingled with the sound of hope. Crowley has spent so long without hope.

"Then- could we, somehow-"

Crowley’s not aware of moving, only of his hands in Aziraphale’s hair and his lips on Aziraphale’s lips. Araphale groans as if he’s savouring a delicacy, and Crowley wonders if he, too, feels like a starving man at a feast. They break apart for a moment, gasping for precious oxygen they don’t need, and Crowley knows it’s not enough. It can never be enough. He will always need more of Aziraphale.

"I know you don't like miracles around your clothes-"

"Please." It’s barely a whimper; as if Crowley could deny him anything, especially when he asks like that. Crowley nods and kisses him again, blessing his uncooperative limbs as they stumble towards the bed. Just once, he would like to be graceful; Aziraphale deserves grace. Aziraphale _is_ grace. As they sink onto the bed, Crowley miracles their clothes onto a chair and tugs Aziraphale flush against him before either of them can get cold, hips rolling instinctively. He breaks the kiss again, reluctant, but determined not to misunderstand anything more.

"What do you want, angel?"

"We both have Adam bodies," Aziraphale manages between ragged breaths, "it's all safe, isn't it? Neither of us is going to conceive this way."

"Probably," Crowley concedes, but then he realises he has a problem. He’s terrified to let Aziraphale down. "But I'm not sure I can last long enough to really test it."

"No, I feel- I feel quite the same." Aziraphale gasps as Crowley continues to undulate against him, as he works his hand between their bodies to stroke them both. "We could go on like this."

"Yeah?" Crowley’s hips jerk involuntarily, but it chafes. "Do you have any oil?"

Aziraphale, at least, has the presence of mind to remember that he’s capable of miracles. Crowley pours a generous amount into his hand and carries on with what he’s been doing. Aziraphale adds a hand to the effort as their lips brush again, and Crowley could drown in this feeling, could dissolve in it.

When they come apart, all too soon, Aziraphale keeps his arms wrapped around Crowley. Demons don’t want gentle, they don’t want _cuddles,_ but Crowley presses his face to Aziraphale’s neck and stays there. If anyone asks him what he’s doing, the word _nuzzle_ won’t come within a hundred leagues of the conversation - not if it knows what’s good for it - but an outsider might be forgiven for thinking that’s what’s going on as Aziraphale laughs.

"Your beard tickles."

"Duly noted." His leg is thrown across Aziraphale’s body, unforgivably clingy, but hopefully Aziraphale won’t notice that. Perhaps Crowley can distract him before he realises how terribly _soft_ his demon can actually be. "Want me to clean up?"

"Oh, would you?" Crowley draws back, licking his lips, stalling for time. He meant it, in the moment, his offer was sincere - he just wants to bring Aziraphale all the pleasure he can imagine, and the memory of Aziraphale’s mouth on him has stayed with him for six centuries. But now, all of a sudden, he’s afraid again. What if they believe a child into being? What if _Crowley_ believes a child into being, all because he’s afraid to take Aziraphale’s spend inside himself, no matter how? Aziraphale’s eyes widen. "Oh! Oh, you meant-"

"I can, if you want. I will."

"Mm. It sounds lovely, my dear, but I think it might be too much tonight. Besides, I'd like to hold you."

"Miracle it is, then." Crowley can’t help the relief that floods his body as he snaps his fingers; he meant what he said in Alexandria. _I can’t do it again._ Better to avoid the risk, however small. If they don’t mix, it won’t happen again. It can’t happen again. The sudden loss of tension he hadn’t realised he’d been holding in his body leaves him sated and sleepy, curled protectively around his angel.

He’s almost asleep when Aziraphale speaks again, ten minutes later.

"I wish I could stay and cuddle for longer, but we can't risk getting caught."

And there’s certainly logic in that, inescapable, inarguable logic, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. He rolls onto his side and watches as Aziraphale dresses again, movements careful and delightfully fussy.

"Will this ever happen again?" He can’t help but ask.

"I'd like it to," Aziraphale assures him, "if you want-"

"I do. I- yeah." He answers entirely too fast to be cool, and follows it up with a blush. "If you like."

"It might not be safe, most of the time." Reality seems to be setting in for the angel, but Crowley can’t seem to muster more than a vague, distant concern. "We can't risk being caught. If Heaven work it out…"

"They've got a hostage," Crowley groans. "I know. We'll have to be careful."

"And I have to leave now." Any disappointment is swiftly chased away as Aziraphale leans down to kiss him goodbye. Crowley wraps his arms around him and kisses back, longing to tempt him - but Aziraphale pulls back all too soon. "It's not that I don't want to stay."

"I know," Crowley whispers, as if it’s not the most incredible miracle he’s ever encountered, as if it makes any sense at all that this beautiful, infuriating angel wants _him_.

"The, ah, Edinburgh details are all in the letter, so your report should be accurate. I'll see you again soon?"

"Of course you will."

Aziraphale hesitates as he reaches the door, turning back for one last glance. Crowley wonders what he must look like, spread-eagled on the bed and bare as the day he was made. He tries not to squirm under Aziraphale’s scrutiny, focuses on not exuding temptation, letting Aziraphale make his own choices. For all that, for a moment it looks as though he’s going to come back to bed, but then the angel seems to shake himself out of it.

Crowley lies there and watches him walk out, hoping against all hope that this is a new beginning and not an end.


	18. Paris, 1793 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here be smut (probably bad smut, but I get credit for trying, right?).
> 
> Also, this is analogous to Chapter 12 of the original fic, so I think it's fair to say this one will be substantially longer...
> 
> Historical notes at the end. Enjoy!

There can be nothing in the world, as far as Crowley's concerned, as mesmerising as watching Aziraphale enjoy food. The little sounds of enjoyment he makes, the way his tongue darts out to catch stray crumbs and sweep away the glisten of sugar from his bottom lip. Crowley realises abruptly that he hasn't said anything in several minutes, entranced by the sight before him. He clears his throat.

"What now?"

Aziraphale dabs at his lips with his handkerchief and sighs contentedly. "The crêpes were delicious, Crowley. Thank you for keeping me company." The angel looks up at him from beneath lowered lashes, and Crowley wants to kiss that sly little smile off of his face. He has to resist. It isn’t safe, even if he could be sure Aziraphale would appreciate it. "And for the rescue. I feel you ought to have some sort of reward."

That’s interesting. "What did you have in mind?"

"Where does your side think you are?"

"Canada, messing with MacKenzie.” It’s too good an opportunity to pass up; Hell is rather old-fashioned about handcrafted, single-human temptations, and MacKenzie has opened himself up to no end of trouble. Of course, the moment Aziraphale got himself into _more_ trouble, Crowley abandoned the endeavour and rushed to France. “You?"

"London. So they won't be looking here." He leans in close, and Crowley’s brain stutters to a halt as he drops his voice to a low purr. "You can have any reward you want."

He can’t possibly be proposing- it isn’t safe to- _they won’t be looking here-_ he must mean something else- _any reward you want-_ Crowley wants. Crowley _wants._ He wants Aziraphale, wants to hold him and kiss him and carry him to the very heights of corporeal pleasure. He wants Aziraphale to feel the same. _Any reward you want,_ and Aziraphale’s sly smile is beginning to falter. Doubt is creeping in; Crowley’s vanishes, suddenly. They are on the same page. Crowley stands, throws some money onto the table, and jerks his head in the direction of the main road.

"I find myself in possession of a room."

It’s just a storeroom the revolutionaries have been using to dump looted possessions in, but it’s the nearest unoccupied room with a door that locks and a bed. Crowley’s miracle ensures that nobody else will take any interest in it for the rest of the day - he’s an optimist at heart - and the moment they’re inside, Aziraphale reaches for him, drags him into a kiss that makes Crowley’s breath burn in his lungs. He breaks away reluctantly, heart pounding.

“Wait, Aziraphale, angel, wait.” And Aziraphale, thank Somebody, takes a step back, the distance between them allowing Crowley’s jumbled, frightened thoughts to settle into some sort of order. At least, enough for him to continue speaking.

"Sorry. I just- we need- if we're going to- I have Eve parts, at the moment, and I don't want to change them." He snaps his fingers, summoning a sheath from the ether. "So- so this is what the humans use." He holds it out, proud of himself for suppressing the hiss that threatens to escape him; it’s not until Aziraphale frowns that he realises his hand is shaking.

"And you're happy to use it?"  
He nods. "I just hope it works." He drops it into Aziraphale's outstretched hand, but Aziraphale immediately sets it aside, reaching out to relieve Crowley of his glasses instead. Crowley does his best to hold the angel’s gaze as he peers into them, as if into Crowley’s very soul. Instead, he finds himself staring at Aziraphale’s ear, afraid that he’ll see his doubts and want nothing more to do with him. Crowley wants Aziraphale, of course he does, and he knows that the humans frequently fit themselves together in all sorts of configurations without becoming pregnant. This flimsy little covering, it’s supposed to be enough to stop the miracle of life - humans swear by it.

Humans have believed a lot of things are infallible, and been wrong.

Aziraphale closes his eyes, apparently disappointed in his response, and becomes very still for several moments. Crowley reaches out to touch his cheek, worried. 

"All right, angel?"

"Just fine," Aziraphale tells him, surprisingly cheerful. "How do you feel about matching parts?"

"Matching-?” It might be safer, but Crowley feels very in tune with his corporation as it stands, and that’s a rare enough situation that he doesn’t want to risk it. “Er. I'd rather stay as I am, if you don't mind-"

"You can. You'd need to, actually, for us to match at the moment."

Crowley doesn’t understand, at first, and then he does. He closes his eyes for an instant, just to make sure he’s not dreaming, and when he opens them again Aziraphale is still smiling at him. He has changed his own corporation - his corporation, which Crowley knows he has _always_ felt at home in, just the way it always is - to make Crowley comfortable.

"You don't- that is- I didn't think you did that."

"I don't, usually. I thought you might like to help me explore the potential."

"Angel." He can’t seem to draw air into his lungs; the sacrifice Aziraphale is making is enormous, albeit temporary. Crowley has never dared to hope for so much love, for such a breath-takingly affectionate display. "You don't have to do this for me.”

"I know I don't." Aziraphale takes his hand and leads him to the bed. "Let me."

Crowley is on him almost before they hit the mattress, kissing him as he struggles to divest him of layer after layer of clothes. There’s too much fabric in the way; he wants Aziraphale bare beneath him, wants no barriers between them- he snaps his fingers and immediately regrets it, remembering how careful Aziraphale always is with his clothes.

"Sorry-"

"Not my clothes," Aziraphale points out, "and I'm impatient too."

"Not impatient," Crowley pretends to grumble. "Are you going to tease me, now? I thought you were grateful for the rescue." His own excitement is reflected in Aziraphale’s eyes as he nods.

"I am, dear. Let me thank you."

Crowley is on his back within seconds, Aziraphale running scorching kisses from his lips down his neck and onward, trailing the length of his body. Crowley writhes and whimpers, almost undone by the mere proximity of his beloved, and at last Aziraphale gets his hands on Crowley’s hips to keep him still.

"Crowley, you look delicious. May I taste?"

What can he say? All the words have flown from his head. "Fuck. Yes."

"Then stay still, dear fiend, I like my nose the shape it is." And before Crowley can think of a sarcastic response to that, Aziraphale’s mouth is on him and all he can do is moan. Aziraphale’s lips and tongue feel exquisite, and soon they’re joined by a finger, which slides into Crowley without meeting a hint of resistance because Crowley doesn’t expect it to. It’s perfect; it’s _perfect_. 

Aziraphale grimaces. "Sorry, I should have asked-"

"Anything, just don't stop-" And he doesn’t, he simply lowers his head again and sets to work making Crowley see stars.

Crowley was wrong, before, because if he thought watching Aziraphale eat was mesmerising it's nothing compared to watching him now, through half-lidded eyes, between desperate breaths. It's almost too much; in the end, Crowley’s the one who begs for a break as his hips jerk upwards without his direction. He’s so close, and he wants to see that Aziraphale’s sated first, in case he’s too wrung-out and boneless to be of use to him afterwards.

"Wait, wait, I don't want to- not yet- come here." He pulls Aziraphale down for a kiss that tastes of - well, Crowley himself, he supposes - then rolls them over. "Want to show you- feels so different-"

"Whatever you want," Aziraphale promises, and then Crowley's fingers brush over a sensitive spot and he yelps. Crowley freezes.

"Too much?"

"Please-" Aziraphale scrunches his eyes shut. "Please, more." 

Crowley chuckles and kisses him, allowing his hand to move again, exploring this new part of his oldest friend. He can tell from the shuddering and the high, breathy noises the angel is making that it won’t take him long to reach his climax; he’s gentle, all the same, and tries to take things slowly, to let Aziraphale enjoy himself to the fullest possible extent. When Aziraphale tightens around his fingers, Crowley’s certain they must be able to hear his noises all the way down to the deepest circles of Hell, but nobody from either side comes to investigate. When the angel’s eyes open again, Crowley has his tongue curled around his own fingers, as much to drive Aziraphale wild as to get them clean. 

He’s still trembling, rocked by the aftershocks of his orgasm, but he seems happy. That’s all Crowley wants, for Aziraphale to be happy with him.

"How was it?" He asks, just to be sure, and Aziraphale rolls his eyes at him.

"I think you know I enjoyed it."

"Hm. Good." He darts down to steal a taste from the source, and Aziraphale sits up, indignant.

"Oh, no. It's your turn."

"I'm enjoying myself," Crowley protests, but he lets Aziraphale urge him up the bed, anyway, realising that his angel is probably feeling rather oversensitive.

"No, you're enjoying me, and I want to return the favour. Lie down."

Aziraphale spreads Crowley’s legs and dives down between them, tongue questing and fingers caressing until Crowley comes undone - and that, he thinks, is the end of it, but Aziraphale doesn’t stop, just hums against his thigh before carrying on with what he’s been doing. Crowley feels his eyes widen as his breath catches and he claws at the sheets beneath him, Aziraphale easing him through another climax until Crowley collapses, spent and satisfied, against the headboard. For a moment, Aziraphale looks as though he’d like to go for a third, but Crowley reaches for him, coaxes him back up to kiss him instead. They’re both so worked up that kissing soon devolves into rutting against one another until, finally, they come apart one last time together and sprawl, panting, among the pillows.

Crowley’s barely aware of Aziraphale cleaning them up with a quick miracle, but he forces himself to open his eyes when Aziraphale kisses his cheek.

“I’m going to put some clothes on and change my body back, my dear.”

“Angel,” Crowley mumbles, drifting on a tide of euphoria, and doesn’t trouble himself to finish the sentence. He’s not sure what he was going to say anyway.

He’s a little more aware by the time Aziraphale has sorted himself out, so he miracles himself into some clothes. He dresses for Canada; he’s not sticking around to see any more heads roll, and he’s relieved to see that Aziraphale is dressed for London, too. His angel will be far safer there.

"Thank you," Crowley murmurs, before they part, and Aziraphale shakes his head.

"I thought we didn't say that." They don’t, but it’s important. It matters, somehow.

"No, but I know why you did that. So. It's appreciated. That's all."

"Well, I enjoyed it. No need for thanks.” Aziraphale smiles weakly. “Just take care, won't you?"

"I will. Perhaps we'll meet again soon."

"Yes. I might find myself a place in London, you know. Put down some roots. Maybe I'll open that bookshop." Crowley dares a glance at him as he speaks, and finds his angel looking back at him, a little shy all of a sudden. The reason for that soon becomes clear. "You could visit."

"Let me know when it opens, and I'll be there."

And with that promise, he bids his angel goodbye. Canada seems colder than it had before, but at least he knows he’s got something to return to, one day. At least he knows his angel will be glad to welcome him home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical References: Sir Alexander MacKenzie crossed North America (in Canada, or at least what is now Canada) this year. Apparently Crowley was somehow distracted from messing with his journey...


	19. London, 1800 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this is the start of another dip in mood. Again, I'm assuming you're familiar with the deleted bookshop opening scene, but you'll probably be able to infer what's missing if not.
> 
> Some self-loathing from Crowley here. But also some soft. Enjoy!

Crowley makes himself scarce, after his 'conversation' about Aziraphale's might and cunning outside Gabriel's tailors'. With all his senses focused on the archangels he knows to be in town, he's able to sense their departure from Earth. He thinks it's just the two of them. He's almost certain of it.

Still, he hesitates even as every cell of his corporation aches to rush back to Aziraphale's new shop, chocolates in hand. He can't bear it, if he's wrong. He won't survive arriving to find that Aziraphale has left, that Crowley is alone on the Earth, finally and totally alone. He feels pathetic for even thinking it, but he truly believes that without the hope of seeing Aziraphale again, he will completely fall apart.

He makes himself move, at last, picks up his box of chocolates and drags his feet all the way to the bookshop. At the door, he gathers himself, takes a deep breath and forces himself to swagger in like he owns the place, as if there's no doubt in his mind that he's welcome. As if he's sure Aziraphale will be there to welcome him.

As if Aziraphale didn't say _I loathe him,_ just an hour ago. 

"Are you open?" Crowley calls, as he reaches the counter. "I'd like to buy a book-"

"In here." Aziraphale sounds utterly dejected, and when Crowley rushes to the back room he finds that the angel _looks_ miserable, too, crumpled in on himself somehow. Did the plan not work? Is Aziraphale being recalled anyway? He tosses the box of chocolates aside so he can take Aziraphale's hands into his own.

"Angel, what's happened?"

"Oh, Crowley. I'm so sorry. I've let you down again." Aziraphale has never let him down, not once, not really - even if it has sometimes been hard to remember that. He squeezes his fingers reassuringly; Aziraphale winces, so Crowley stops.

"What do you mean?"

"They changed their minds, my dear. They don't want me back in Heaven. I can't check on our child for you. I would have tried everything to get news to you."

Understanding crashes over him like a cold wave, filling his lungs and dragging him under. Of course Aziraphale wanted to go back to Heaven - it's his home, after all, and his only true family is there. Their _child_ is there, and Crowley has selfishly stood between Aziraphale and a beautiful reunion because- well, because he couldn't stand to lose him. Because he didn't think. Because he's a selfish, worthless demon who doesn't deserve Aziraphale's attention, let alone his affection; who doesn't deserve their child, either. He has ruined Aziraphale's best chance of getting to be a real parent at last - because surely even Heaven would have to abandon their excuses and let him see their child, once he was back where he belonged - and somehow, Aziraphale is apologising to _him._

"No, I'm sorry, angel. I didn't think - of course you wanted to go back, you would have got to see- Shit. I panicked and I fucked it all up for you."

"I don't understand," Aziraphale admits, and Crowley is forced to explain himself. How he disguised a mannequin as a demon and pretended Aziraphale was the only thing standing between humanity and total damnation-

"Not that you're not," he adds hastily, "I mean, you're always thwarting me,"

-and basically made it impossible for Heaven to do anything but let him stay. All because Crowley is too selfish to be without him.

"I'm sorry," he says, and it's hopelessly inadequate and barely a whisper, but maybe Aziraphale hears it all the same, because he smiles a sad little smile.

"I don't think they'd have let me find the baby anyway." Aziraphale reaches out and pats Crowley's arm. "I'm glad you found a way to keep me here, wily adversary of mine."

It takes his breath away, the ease of Aziraphale's forgiveness, the grace of his reassurance. Aziraphale really doesn't seem to think Crowley has made a terrible mistake, and if Aziraphale believes that then maybe Crowley can begin to believe it too. Aziraphale leans in to kiss the corner of his mouth, and it's as if he knocks loose a stray thought in the process.

"I wish we knew how they were," Crowley hears himself murmur, and Aziraphale sits back, smiling softly. He doesn't seem to have an answer to that; of course they both wish they knew something - anything - about their lost child.

"I have wine," Aziraphale offers. "Did you mention chocolates?"

"I did." He's forgotten all about them; he scrambles to fetch them, too busy trying to coordinate his limbs to worry about what comes out of his mouth. A mistake. "I could feed them to you, if you like." He expects that to be awkward, blood rushing to his face and heating his skin, but Aziraphale just seems to _glow_ at the suggestion _._

"And you call me a hedonist," he laughs, and opens his mouth invitingly.

Crowley's not sure whether he should believe his luck as he fumbles with the box, extracts a rich, dark chocolate and offers it to Aziraphale. The angel is, it seems, not joking; he not only allows Crowley to feed him the chocolate but also darts his tongue out to catch any lingering flavour clinging to the demon's fingers. Crowley feels himself blush furiously again as Aziraphale makes a soft, satisfied sound, but he can't move away. He can't even _look_ away. He is caught, completely and utterly, transfixed by the angel at the heart of his existence.

Aziraphale does produce the promised wine, in time, and they proceed to become mildly inebriated. Aziraphale is the one to start the kissing, Crowley's very nearly certain of it, and before he knows it hours have passed, hours spent lazily caressing one another over layers and layers of fabric.

"I say, it's not fair, your still having clothes on." Aziraphale sighs. "I mean, they definitely suit you. But they'd be better off."

"Suit me, eh?" Crowley teases, largely to stall for time while he tries to remember why on earth they're still dressed.

"Yes. The very definition of devilishly handsome. It's hard enough to resist you as a beggar, why aren't we making love right now?"

And _oh,_ Crowley doesn't know, for a moment. He's tempted to disrobe there and then, to unwrap Aziraphale like the exquisite gift that he is, but there's something important, something that matters a great deal to Aziraphale, something Crowley doesn't want to disrupt. It's a struggle to remember, with Aziraphale now nosing at the sensitive spot just beneath his jaw, hot breath setting Crowley to shivering. He laughs, because it tickles, and because he remembers very well that Aziraphale was tempted by his beggar's disguise all those years ago, and because he remembers, now, what's so important.

"You've got a shop to open in the morning. Grandly, you've got to open it _grandly_." Aziraphale has been dreaming of this, working towards it, for years. Crowley won't ruin it for him. Aziraphale sits back, looking a little put out. 

"Hm. Suppose so. I only hope nobody tries to buy anything."

"You sure you _want_ a shop, angel?"

"Of course I do! What a question." He looks genuinely affronted, and his fussy little pout is so endearing that Crowley _has_ to laugh at him again, or he'll have to kiss him, properly this time, with intent - and then who knows where they'll end up? 

"We'll meet them again one day," Aziraphale continues, as if the conversation hasn't moved on at all. "Both of us."

"Maybe," Crowley sighs, knowing in his heart of hearts that he will never get the chance to see their child again. "Right, 'm gonna go home."

"Ohhhhhhhh," Aziraphale whines, but he follows Crowley's lead and sobers up. "We really will see them," he repeats, grimacing as the last of the alcohol leaves his system, "we just have to have faith in that."

"I don't do faith any more, angel," Crowley reminds him. Then he stands, presses a kiss to Aziraphale's temple, and heads for the door. "You might get there, though. If you do, tell them I-" _-love them,_ he thinks, but can't quite bear to say. "Well, you know. Tell them what you think they can handle."

"You'll tell them yourself," he hears, before the door swings closed behind him, and he wishes with all his heart that that could ever be true.


	20. Higham, 1860 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back on the angst train, gang - sorry about that.

Crowley has been summoned to a little Medway village out of the blue, and he's less than thrilled to see a thin tendril of smoke curling up into the sky when he arrives. At least it gives him some warning of who he's dealing with, which in turn allows him to act completely unsurprised when Hastur emerges from a nearby shadow.

"Hail Satan," Hastur intones solemnly, and Crowley stifles a sigh.

"Absolutely. Look, can we skip the Deeds of the Day, I was right in the middle of something quite fiendish" - well, he'd been repotting a geranium, but Hastur doesn't need to know that - "and I'd really like to get back to it."

"Oh. Er. Right, I suppose so. This is a bit of a strange situation, after all."

"What is?" 

"We've had a message from Above." Hastur's face contorts into a sneer; it makes him even uglier than usual, in Crowley's opinion. "Wanted to know if we'd had any new demons since the Fall."

"Well, yeah," Crowley tells him, deliberately casual even as his heart sinks. He isn't sure what he's afraid of, exactly, but he is afraid. "There are always new demons pulling themselves out of the pits."

"Not new angels, though," Hastur counters, with the air of someone who knows something others don't know and plans to be a smug git about it. Crowley's blood runs cold.

"Well, no. Where would they come from?" He can only hope that, since Crowley is the one asking the question, Hastur won't give it too much thought.

"Well, exactly. Think that's what they wanted to know, they wanted to know if we'd had something to do with this Jorael creature, this new angel appearing out of nowhere."

_Jorael._ Crowley's pulse pounds in his ears. Is that their name? Is that what Heaven has called his child? It's a little angelic for his tastes, of course, but he knows it now. He knows his child's name, at last, and he can tell Aziraphale, Aziraphale can find some excuse to speak to them-

_Jorael._ He can imagine Aziraphale saying it so clearly, as if he's already heard it, as if it's a memory. Come to think of it… it _is_ a memory, he's sure of it. Aziraphale has mentioned their child to him by name. Aziraphale knows, has known, has perhaps _always_ known- and hasn't told Crowley.

"Course Ligur told them we've got better things to do than try to make false angels," Hastur goes on, oblivious to Crowley's inner turmoil. "Not to mention it's the first we've heard of it, so. I suppose we should tell Beelzebub about it, if they're getting reinforcements."

"Well, I mean. It's just the one, right? Hardly seems worth bothering Beelzebub about."

"And you haven't heard anything while you've been up here?"

"About angels? Nah. I've been busy - at the moment, for example, I'm working on-"

"Not interested, Crowley. I'm off. Hail Satan."

"Mm." And Hastur is gone, melting through the earth beneath his feet.

_Jorael,_ Crowley thinks, longing to feel the name on his tongue but too afraid to risk it. _Jorael. And Aziraphale knows._ He has definitely heard Aziraphale say the name before. But why didn't he tell Crowley? Why wouldn't he share the only shred of insight they have into their child's life?

As if he has called him there, Crowley becomes aware of Aziraphale's presence a little way beyond the fire. A quick glance as he passes reveals that Hastur has - no doubt inadvertently - actually managed to do something that will frustrate people for years to come. Charles Dickens is burning his letters, and of course Aziraphale is here to be upset about it.

He walks up behind the angel, studying the tension in his shoulders, searching for something that might alleviate the pain of betrayal. All he gets is a smile as Aziraphale turns to greet him.

"Crowley. What are you doing here?"

"Oh, you know. Spreading paranoia." He can't keep the bitterness from his voice; hopefully Aziraphale won't notice anything amiss. Crowley is often bitter; he's earned that right. "You never know who you can trust."

"Spreading- Crowley! Is this your doing?"

"Hm? No. I'm just here to mess with Hastur - don't worry, he's gone," he adds as Aziraphale steps away, glancing around in a panic. "Fire's probably his idea, though. I suppose someone should apologise."

"Hell doesn't apologise."

 _Neither does Heaven,_ Crowley longs to point out. _Neither do you._ He huffs instead. "Well, true. Still. It's terrible to miss out on something you so desperately want."

Aziraphale narrows his eyes at that, perhaps sensing that something is wrong. Perhaps he feels guilty for holding back the vital information he's not sharing with Crowley. Perhaps he's wondering if Crowley knows. But whatever he sees when he looks at Crowley, it's clearly not enough to tempt him to raise the subject.

"I wouldn't go that far - just a whim, really, to try to get one of his letters as a keepsake for future generations."

"Ah, yes. Future generations. Are they really going to care, though?" Crowley scoffs. "I mean, _please, sir, I want some more_ \- he's not exactly Shakespeare, is he?" He hesitates for a fraction of a second before twisting the knife, hating himself for hurting his angel even as he resents having to push for the information. _"What's in a name,_ now _that's_ good."

"I thought you preferred the funny ones." Aziraphale shrugs. "Regardless, people adore his stories. I've had so many enquiries - I had hoped to secure some of these for posterity." He won't be drawn; he must realise by now that Crowley knows, that he _knows_ Aziraphale is keeping things from him. Important things, things about their child, things Crowley has a right to know.

"Too late. Well, he'll write more, I suppose. What do you think he'll call his next characters?" He can't make it sound natural, knows it sounds every bit as pointed as he means it to be. Surely Aziraphale notices, but he speaks as though nothing is wrong.

"Oh, something odd, I imagine. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, just thinking about names." Crowley forces himself to keep his tone light, though his heart feels heavy. "Funny, isn't it? You know someone's name and you think you know them. Write it on an envelope and the letter should find them. Humans reckon you can even use it to gain power over someone like me. Quite a lot in a name, if you really think about it."

Aziraphale doesn't respond. Crowley doesn't know why he thought he would; it's obvious that he has no intention of telling Crowley their child's name, or even that he knows it. They watch the flames for a long time, and Crowley thinks of burning wings and damnation and wonders if he's being unreasonable. He, more than anyone, knows the danger Aziraphale is in. If anyone were to discover their connection - their _child_...

"I wonder why he's burning them," Aziraphale interrupts his thoughts and Crowley frowns.

"Everyone has secrets, angel, things they won't even tell their oldest friends. Don't you keep anything from me?" And oh, his heart breaks as Aziraphale's face flickers with panic, eyes wide and horrified before his expression smooths over and becomes guarded. 

Crowley has been hoping, all this time, that he's been remembering wrong, that he's missed something, that Aziraphale _doesn't_ know. That he's not keeping something so precious from him. But Aziraphale's reaction speaks volumes, and when he finds words Crowley knows them to be falsehoods.

"Of course not," Aziraphale lies, and he says it with such warmth that Crowley wants to bask in his smile as he always does. But he can't. He _can't._

"That's what I thought." He tells him, and then turns to leave before he can start to shouting or, worse, crying. 

Aziraphale seems surprised. "Oh, are you leaving? I thought we might-"

"Things to do, angel. Got some intelligence from Hastur, as unlikely as that sounds, and I need to work out what to do with it." It's a struggle to keep his voice level, not to betray his pain. He cannot show weakness to his angel, not now. Not now.

"Well, perhaps I can help-"

"Not this time, angel."

And he strides away, tears in his eyes, and he doesn't look back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical References: when I looked up things that happened in the mid-1800s, I learned that in 1860, Charles Dickens burned all his letters (to/from a mistress, I believe). Crowley compares a quote from Oliver Twist ("Please, sir, I want some more") to the one from Romeo and Juliet.
> 
> Oh, and if you want to make yourself sadder, hop back to [the equivalent chapter in Blood and Straw](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22881865/chapters/55100983#main) and check out what's going on from Aziraphale's point of view.


	21. London, 1862 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the descent into angst once again - it will get better, a little bit, but if you've read Blood and Straw you already know that it also gets worse. Sit back and enjoy the ride, that's my advice. Anyway, here you go! 1862. What a year.

Crowley stands rigid, staring over the duck pond as he waits for Aziraphale to join him. Once he does, he wastes no time in getting down to business.

"Look, I've been thinking. What if it all goes wrong?" Aziraphale is busy throwing bread from his hat into the pond; Crowley finds himself tempted to brush a few crumbs from his hair, just to touch. Just to touch him, this being whom he loves, and who has betrayed him. "We have a lot in common, you and me." It's as much a reminder to himself as to the angel, who - of course - has to argue the point.

"I don't know. We may have both started off as angels, but _you_ are fallen." And isn't that the crux of the problem, when it comes down to it? Crowley is fallen. Capital-F Fallen, even. He will never see Heaven again, and so he will never reach his child. He will never reach Jorael.

"I didn't really fall," he blusters, because it's safer than dwelling on the truth. "I just… sauntered vaguely downwards."

He takes a breath, tries to ground himself in the here and now, in what ought to be a serious discussion if only Aziraphale was paying attention to _him_ rather than the ducks. This is important. He has to ask.

"I need a favour."

"We already have the agreement, Crowley. Stay out of each other's way. Lend a hand when needed."

"This is something else, for if it all goes pear-shaped."

"I like pears."

Crowley grits his teeth and ignores that; it’s as if Aziraphale is _trying_ to wind him up. He must sense that this is important. Surely he must. Perhaps he realises that Crowley knows, and wants to avoid a confrontation; well, maybe Crowley _should_ confront him. But he won’t. He won’t risk so much as a whisper of their child’s name reaching Heaven or Hell.

He tries again.

"If it all goes wrong, I want insurance."

"What?"

"I wrote it down. Walls have ears. Well, not walls. Trees have ears. Ducks have ears." He's babbling, he knows, but he can't help it, because he's passed the paper to Aziraphale and Aziraphale is _reading_ it. Reading it and frowning. "Do ducks have ears? Must do. That's how they hear other ducks." _Please, hear me. I need you to understand. I'm scared, and I can't go on like this forever. I can't put our child at risk._

Aziraphale looks up from the piece of paper bearing Crowley’s request - _Holy Water -_ and Crowley already knows what he’s going to say.

"Out of the question."

"Why not?"

"It would destroy you. I'm not bringing you a suicide pill, Crowley."

"That's not what I want it for. Just… insurance."

He’s not sure how true that is, if he’s honest. There might well come a time, a situation, in which the only possible use of the Holy Water he’s asked for is to remove himself from the world entirely. If, for example, Jorael is sent down from Heaven to rain down judgement upon their infernal mother - well. He’d rather do it for them. But there are other situations, lots of them, in which he might need to defend himself from his own side. He might have to defend Aziraphale. He might have to defend their child. He will wipe out any number of demons if he has to, to keep their secret safe. To keep Jorael safe.

Aziraphale bristles. "I'm not an idiot, Crowley. Do you know what trouble I'd get into if they knew I'd been fraternising? It's completely out of the question." 

"Fraternising?" After all they’ve been through, all they’ve done - all they are to one another - is that all Aziraphale sees? Fraternisation? Socialising with the enemy? A conspiracy, a corruption?

"Whatever you wish to call it. I do not think there is any point in discussing it further."

"I have lots of other people to fraternise with, angel." It’s a lie, designed to sting if only Aziraphale feels a fraction of what Crowley does between them.

"Of course you do."

"I don't need you," Crowley insists, the words hollow and bitter on his tongue.

"The feeling is mutual. Obviously."

"Obviously."

Aziraphale turns to storm away, and Crowley thinks that’s the end of it. His last-ditch attempt to keep them all safe has failed. Aziraphale will not help him. And then, as if Crowley's prayers have been answered, he turns back.

"You are needed, though," he says, and Crowley’s heart stops. "You know who I mean."

"I do - no thanks to you.” Aziraphale has the good grace to flinch back from the accusation, at least. Crowley feels a cold sort of triumph in making the angel hurt, the way he’s trying to hurt Crowley. The way he’s succeeding. “And they don't need me; they don't know me - they'd attack me on sight."

"You can't be sure of that," Aziraphale snaps, as if he doesn’t remember that Jorael - their _child_ \- once chased Crowley halfway around the globe before he could shake them off.

"Can't I?" He shoots him his most vicious glare, hoping to convey his contempt for Aziraphale’s innocent act, and storms away.

He goes home, and he screams at the walls, at the plants, at the sky, until finally he can scream no more. Then he curls up under his bedclothes and goes to sleep, for however long it takes until he can face the world again.

He sleeps for a very long time.


	22. Berlin, 1939 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one's late. And short. It's been a busy week. But there should be more soon! Enjoy.

Crowley wakes to a stack of memos from Hell, most of which seem to be commending him for a huge war involving a substantial chunk of the world, then warning him that it had better _not_ have been the war to end all wars, and then commending him for the start of _another_ war involving a large chunk of the world. He skims through some of the more detailed points of what he’s supposedly inspired and has to vanish the contents of his stomach in order to avoid throwing up. The things being done in Europe are appalling - and where is Aziraphale, he wonders. Why isn’t the angel intervening?

He goes to Germany, to see what mischief he can stir up against the monstrous regime that’s taken power while he slept, and while he’s ranging around Europe putting holes in fuel tanks and feeding supernatural misinformation to the relevant operatives, he has ample opportunities to consider why Aziraphale might have done what he has done. He sees family names hastily changed, speaks to parents who put their infants onto trains years ago and can only hope they’ll see them again. He considers the pain a parent might endure in order for their children to be free, to survive when the very fact of who they are can be used against them.

Aziraphale was right to give their child to Heaven, and right not to tell him who Jorael was. He’s right, of course he’s right, to keep the truth from Crowley even now. He is simply trying to keep Jorael safe, and isn’t that what Crowley wants, too? Isn’t that the one thing he wants more than truth, more than his own happiness or Aziraphale’s, more than anything? Crowley wants Jorael to be safe, and Aziraphale wants Jorael to be safe, and of course it hurts that Crowley can’t know their child - but knowing their name would have changed nothing. He has lost nothing.

He stays away from London, and he does what he can to swim against the tide of the war, to make what little improvements he can to the lives of the children caught up in it. He makes quite a name for himself, actually, as an omen of unnaturally terrible luck among Nazis.

That name is Anthony J. Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes: Crowley is in Europe during World War II. I've taken a little artistic license in allowing him to chat to some of those who sent their kids out via the Kindertransport - I don't know whether any of those families would have crossed paths with Crowley, but the parallel was there. I hope I haven't handled it horribly insensitively!


	23. London, 1941 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are at the Blitz scene! Here be smut. Enjoy!

Crowley is tired of his petty interference by the time he hears that agents are being sent to retrieve books of prophecy from a foolish British bookseller. It doesn’t take him very long to realise, firstly, that he _knows_ a British bookseller, and secondly, that _his_ British bookseller is exactly the sort of person to try to pull some sort of trickery in the process of selling books of prophecy to Nazis.

He goes, accordingly, to London, arriving at a little church just in time to see a Nazi spy whose path he’s crossed before disappear into the building. He sighs - this is going to hurt - before redirecting a bombing raid and heading inside.

Later, when the dust has cleared and the rubble has settled, he hands Aziraphale his blessed books and gives him a lift home. They pull up outside the darkened bookshop, and Crowley switches the engine off, and then for a moment they just sit. Crowley doesn’t know where they stand, what to do, and Aziraphale seems just as lost. But, in the end, it’s the angel who finds his voice.

"How are your feet?"

"Sore," Crowley admits, although it’s hardly a strong enough word for the burning sensation in his feet and the hammering of his heart as he realises that tonight, Aziraphale could have been discorporated. If Aziraphale was discorporated, he would be in Heaven, and there’d be no guarantee of his being sent back down. Crowley could have ended up alone on the Earth. He grimaces. "Quick question; does fallen masonry make water less holy?"

"I vanished it just before the bomb hit," Aziraphale tells him sternly, "water _splashes._ Let's not argue about this tonight."

"Right. Yeah. Probably for the best."

"Will you come in and let me take care of your feet?" The offer is unexpected; Crowley has been bracing himself for the inevitable goodbye, convinced Aziraphale will send him away for the cowardice of asking him for Holy Water nearly eighty years ago, for daring to bring it up again now. But Aziraphale seems sincere in his desire to take care of Crowley, and Crowley… Crowley can’t quite believe it.

"You don't have to do that, angel."

"But I'm going to. Come _in,_ Crowley."

And Aziraphale gets out of the car.

Crowley hesitates for a moment before following him, but he’s not sure who he thinks he’s fooling. He has been following Aziraphale around for nearly six thousand years and he’s not likely to stop now.

"Take a seat," Aziraphale orders, then pops into the other room and returns with a tub of warm water. Crowley has barely got his shoes off - he’s a little frightened that they’ll fuse with his skin if he doesn’t remove them - by the time the angel returns, and then Aziraphale astonishes him by kneeling at his feet and placing his hands over Crowley’s as he begins to peel off his socks. "Let me," Aziraphale insists, and carefully takes over the task. Crowley winces as the fabric parts ways with his burned skin, but he can’t complain about the pain when it brings him so close to his beloved.

Aziraphale’s hands are soft, almost reverent as he guides Crowley’s feet into the tub, one by one, and rubs gently at the tender reddened skin of Crowley’s soles. Crowley is just coming to the realisation that it’s a remarkably pleasant sensation, despite the lingering ache, when Aziraphale leans forward and presses his forehead to Crowley’s leg. It’s a strange feeling, but it’s nice, too. He has missed being close to Aziraphale, _feeling_ close. For a moment, it’s like old times.

“Angel,” he breathes, voice rasping on the word, “feelssss good.”

“I’m glad.” The angel’s voice is a little muffled, speaking as he is into Crowley’s lap. “You shouldn’t have done it, you know.”

“Done what?” It’s hard to focus, with Aziraphale’s breath caressing his thigh.

“Come into the church.” _That_ catches his attention, like a slap in the face. Of course Aziraphale didn’t want his help. “It could have killed you. Really _killed_ you.”

"You're welcome. I'll just let you get shot by Nazis next time, shall I?"

"Yes!" Aziraphale looks up, but his chin is still on Crowley’s knee. It’s hard to be truly offended when Aziraphale is still so _close_. "Yes, because if I'm discorporated in a church it's inconvenient. If _you_ are, I don't know what would happen. I don't know how to make it any clearer, Crowley; I can't lose you. I couldn't bear it."

Crowley doesn’t know how to respond to that. It’s too much, too… too caring, too close to something Crowley doesn’t dare to hope for.

"Don't be stupid, I was fine. Try to do one n- _helpful_ thing, and I get told off for it-"

"I _am_ grateful," Aziraphale tells him, his face turned up towards Crowley’s, "which is one reason I'm on my knees at your feet."

"Just one reason?" Crowley teases, because he doesn’t know what to make of that. The last time they spoke, they fought, and now… now Aziraphale is being so open and warm and affectionate.

"Mind out of the gutter," Aziraphale scolds him lightly, with a tap on the knee for good measure. "And, for that matter, feet out of the water so I can see how they are."

His feet don’t immediately pass muster; Aziraphale insists on bathing them again, and then drying them thoroughly with a soft towel, and Crowley’s certain he feels the lightest brush of divinity against the soft scales of his soles before Aziraphale’s fingers trace the same path. He shivers at the sensation.

"Tickles," he grumbles, hoping the angel won’t stop, and Aziraphale smiles up at him. Crowley expects him to take a seat, but he seems happy where he is, on his knees at Crowley’s feet. It feels wrong, having an angel kneel before him, but having Aziraphale look up at him like that is _wonderful._ Crowley sighs contentedly, watching as Aziraphale seems to gather his thoughts.

"I owe you an apology," he admits, and Crowley’s curiosity is roused. "I made a mistake and let Gabriel trick me."

"Trick you?"

"I promised I wouldn't ask about our child again, if he told me one thing about them. And he told me their age. Just… the one thing we already knew, and now we'll never know anything else. I'm so sorry, Crowley."

Crowley stares down at him for a moment, perplexed. Aziraphale seems so sincere, his apology heartfelt, and yet Crowley knows that Aziraphale already knows at least one fact about their child. About Jorael. He _knows,_ and he’s telling Crowley he can’t. This isn’t just a failure to mention it, a lie by omission. This is a real falsehood, and yet Aziraphale is so believable.

That’s _good,_ he reminds himself. That means Heaven will believe whatever he has to tell them to protect Jorael. But he doesn’t have to lie to Crowley. Surely he could tell Crowley the truth.

"The one thing," Crowley repeats dully. "You're sure you can't tell me anything else?"

"I'm sorry." Aziraphale shakes his head. "And I daren't break my promise, not when Heaven has them." _You gave them to Heaven,_ Crowley thinks uncharitably, and then, _I let you. We both made that decision, to keep Jorael safe, and if you’re keeping things from me now it’s for the same reason. We’re just trying to keep our child safe._ He takes a very deep breath and hopes Aziraphale doesn’t notice.

"No. No, I suppose not." Crowley raises a hand to toy with Aziraphale's curls, scratching slightly at his scalp, and Aziraphale’s whole body relaxes. "If you could tell me anything, I know you would."

"Of course, my dear." Aziraphale presses forward between his legs and nuzzles at his thigh, and he gasps. "May I ask you something?"

 _"Ngk._ Anything you like."

"Why didn't you tell me earlier? Before Anathoth, I mean. You must have realised you were, well, expecting."

Crowley tenses; he can’t help it. He’s spent a long time studiously not thinking too hard about his pregnancy, about the months when his child was safe inside him. But now… he finds himself willing to talk about it. Aziraphale has questions, after all. It can’t hurt to answer them. Well, as long as they’re quiet. He doesn’t, however, want to be distracted. He pats the seat beside him invitingly.

"Up, then, angel. We can't have this discussion while you're on your knees." Aziraphale scrambles up onto the sofa beside him, peers at Crowley for a moment, and then takes his hand with a reassuring squeeze.

"I'm only curious, my dear. You don't have to explain yourself-"

"I _didn't_ realise, for quite a while,” Crowley blurts out, before he can think better of it, and then shrugs. "I'd never tried on an Eve corporation for very long before, I thought it was all a part of the _women's troubles_ people kept mentioning.” With hindsight, of course, he knows better, but back then… well, maybe even then he had suspected. He just hadn’t wanted to know, hadn’t wanted it to be true. He had known, after all, that it couldn’t end well. “Then someone congratulated me, asked me if my husband was pleased- I panicked, angel. I didn't know what to think. Part of me wanted to find you and tell you, part of me was afraid to. Once, a woman found me crying on the edge of the desert and offered me a remedy, but I was scared of _that,_ too. We'd both seen so many things go wrong, by then."

"Oh, Crowley." But Crowley doesn’t want pity; he blunders on.

"Besides, I didn't have time to think it through - I was so busy trying to stay a few steps ahead of Hell, because they couldn't find out. And part of me was convinced I'd lose it anyway. Opposing entities, I thought we'd cancel each other out somehow and it wouldn't hurt you if you didn't know. Or you might be angry if I got rid of it, or because I _hadn't_ yet, or because I kept it a secret for so long-"

"I wouldn't have been. I… I don't think I could have been." Aziraphale doesn’t sound entirely certain, though, and Crowley wonders if, had Aziraphale known, they would have fought as they had over Crowley’s request for Holy Water. In a way, he’s glad he didn’t risk it.

"Before I could figure it all out, I went into labour.” That’s a horrible memory; he doesn’t want to dwell on it, but the fear and the pain rises up inside him at the mere mention of it. “I thought I was going to discorporate, angel. And when the baby was born they just screamed and screamed until I put them in the manger and backed off. An angel, how was I supposed to deal with that? I think I was trying to gather the energy to try to contact you when you appeared."

"But- you tried to hide them."

Crowley knows he did, but he still doesn’t quite understand why. He offers Aziraphale his best guess.  
"Panicking again. And I thought maybe I should warn you before you saw- but then- then… Actually, it's all a bit hazy after that."

"I'm not surprised.” Aziraphale pats his hand. “You very nearly discorporated."

They sit quietly for a while, lost in thought. Crowley wonders what Aziraphale is thinking; if he, too, is thinking of that tiny hand wrapped around Aziraphale’s finger, of the way the angel had glowed as he looked at their child, peaceful and content in the manger. When Crowley thinks of it, the ache in his heart hardly matters; it’s the closest thing to peace that he’s known since the Fall.

"Anthony," Aziraphale says, snapping him out of his thoughts. _"Anthony_ J Crowley, wasn't it?"

"Yeah." He tries to sound casual. "Been using variations on it for years. Centuries. Easier, when the humans expect more names."

"And if a twelve-year-old could remember it…?” Aziraphale’s smiling; Crowley laughs, remembering the boys they’d rescued.

"Started using it not long after that, yeah. First thing that came to mind."

"You were so very fond of those children," Aziraphale murmurs softly. There’s a tenderness in his voice Crowley wishes he was capable of. But he’s not; he has to be flippant.

"Just proud of the chaos we caused." He thinks about it for a moment and shrugs; if he can’t be vulnerable with Aziraphale, here, now, when can he? "But… for a few weeks, there, I got to play at being a mother. It was some consolation, I suppose. They were good boys."

Aziraphale nods. "And what does the J stand for, really? Is it so embarrassing you couldn't say it in front of the Nazis?"

Crowley feels the snake inside him rear its head in anger; he can't answer the question, Aziraphale must know that. The J is the truth Aziraphale has hidden from him all this time, the truth Crowley dares not speak aloud. But the angel isn't taunting him, not really. Perhaps he truly doesn't understand that Crowley knows. Crowley leans in to kiss him, to nip at Aziraphale's neck in the way he's learned the angel likes, possessive and loving and just a little desperate. He sinks to his knees between Aziraphale's and looks up at him, longing, _loving._

"It's just a J," he says, and chases the lie with a truth, "I'd rather see what _you_ stand for." His hands are already at Aziraphale's fly, feeling the angel stiffen beneath the fabric, and as soon as he nods Crowley is on him, making quick work of the fastenings before swallowing him down.

"Oh," Aziraphale moans, as expressive when being made a meal of as when enjoying a meal. "Oh, I missed you."

"Funny time to say it," Crowley teases, pulling back to make good use of his tongue for more than just talking. Aziraphale shivers in delight. "Might think you only missed my mouth."

"No, I- ah, all of you- oh- _hate_ when you're gone." Crowley doesn't know how to answer that, except perhaps by redoubling his attention to Aziraphale's Effort, which he does with pleasure. Aziraphale's hands flutter over Crowley's head before the angel seems to make a concerted effort not to grab, pressing his hands into the sofa cushions instead as Crowley takes him right to the back of his throat. Aziraphale is quite incoherent for some time, but at last he makes an urgent noise and struggles his way back into words.

"Crowley- I'm afraid I'm- if you want to stop- has to be now-"

Crowley doesn't want to stop. He doesn't want to be so superstitious any more, doesn't want to believe the world could be so cruel to them twice. He's more than a little worked up, or perhaps he'd consider the endless evidence he's encountered that the world will keep being cruel indefinitely. But he shifts backwards only far enough to take a breath and then rest Aziraphale's effort on his tongue, his hand moving in smooth strokes until the angel comes with a yelp into his open mouth.

And, just like that, the fear floods in. He doesn't know what to do - his mouth is so full, and he has a vague notion that spitting on Aziraphale's clean floor would be unforgivably rude. But if he swallows it- _I can't do it again._ He can't get pregnant this way, it's a ridiculous notion, of course he can't… but what if he does? What if he _does,_ and it's all his fault for taking stupid risks, gambling on their biology being exactly like the humans'?

Aziraphale opens his eyes and smiles gently.

"My dear, please don't feel obliged to swallow that. I won't be offended if you spit it out." Crowley turns away and spits, relieved beyond all measure, and then miracles away every trace of Aziraphale's orgasm. He can't risk it, he won't risk it, even the smallest drop - and it seems only right to clean the floor, too, after all. Aziraphale makes a listless attempt to drag him up onto the seat beside him; Crowley goes, embarrassed and shaken, and leans into the angel's hand as it strokes his cheek.

"Don't laugh," he warns, but Aziraphale doesn't give him time to go on.

"Because you don't want to take any chances? Darling, it's quite understandable."

"'S ridiculous," Crowley points out, "that's not how it works."

"Doesn't matter." Aziraphale seems quite certain; perhaps, after all, Crowley is not the only one who isn't certain of the ins and outs of the reproductive system. "Would you mind terribly if I returned the favour?"

 _"Mind-?"_ Aziraphale is already pushing him down into the cushions, and Crowley soon forgets his fears as the angel takes him into his mouth.

He doesn’t know what to do with himself; for the second time this evening, Aziraphale is on his knees before a demon, and it’s just so wrong, he knows that. But he can’t _feel_ the wrongness of it, not when Aziraphale is humming around him, pressing kisses to his thighs, pressing his fingers into the backs of Crowley’s calves to make him gasp. It’s embarrassing, really, how quickly Aziraphale can reduce him to incoherent whimpers - and then, just as Crowley is about to lose himself entirely to pleasure, he backs off.

“Perfect,” Crowley thinks he hears over the pounding of his own heart, Aziraphale’s breath providing only the ghost of the stimulation he needs. He whimpers, and Aziraphale strokes his leg. It’s probably supposed to be calming. Crowley is the opposite of calmed. But then Aziraphale takes pity on him, urges him over the edge with laughter in his eyes.

It’s something of a haze, after that; Crowley finds his feet eventually, valiantly keeps his balance until he reaches his car. Around the corner, he has to stop to catch his breath. He is so very in love with his angel, and it will destroy him. He still doesn’t have his insurance; he still has no way to protect himself.

He can’t, in this moment, find it within himself to care.


	24. London, 1967 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go, the dreaded 1967 scene. Enjoy!

Crowley is holding a secret meeting about a heist that might be the worst-kept secret in London. Honestly, it’s faintly alarming how fast word has spread about his minor criminal activities. He hasn’t even been  _ trying  _ to spread rumours, hasn’t tried to make sure the news reaches certain angelic ears. He doesn’t want it to. He needs this insurance, and Aziraphale might well stop him from getting it.

He’s not even really surprised, then, when Aziraphale appears in his car. No, it’s not a surprise at all - more of a crushing disappointment. Aziraphale is going to thwart his meager wiles, and if he tells Crowley not to try again, well, Crowley’s not sure he’ll have much of a choice.

And, sure enough, Aziraphale tells him he hasn’t changed his mind. And then he hands over a Thermos flask, patterned in a tartan Crowley’s never seen on anyone else, and Crowley’s mouth goes dry.

“You can call off the robbery,” Crowley barely hears, “don’t go unscrewing the cap.”

“It’s the real thing?”

“The holiest.”

Aziraphale brushes off Crowley’s thanks, but he can’t let the angel think this most precious gift is unappreciated. He doesn’t know what to do, how he can thank him, only that he loves him as much in this moment as he ever has. He has  _ understood _ , at last. He understands why Crowley wants Holy Water, why he needs it. Or even if he doesn’t understand, he trusts Crowley with it. That’s just as much of a treasure as the glimmer of hope contained in the flask. 

“Can I drop you anywhere?”

“No, thank you.” It’s like a physical blow; Crowley focuses very hard on not doubling over, on not seeming visibly pained. It seems he’s unsuccessful, because Aziraphale softens slightly as he continues. “Oh, don’t look so disappointed. Perhaps one day we could… I don't know… Have a picnic. Or dine at the Ritz."

"I'll give you a lift," Crowley insists, hoping they can go somewhere more private. Discuss things.  _ Not  _ discuss them. Anything, he just wants to reassure Aziraphale that he’s not going anywhere. He wants to cling to his angel, hold him close, promise him a future that’s not guaranteed. The future has no guarantees. "Anywhere you want to go."

But Aziraphale barely hesitates, and when he speaks his voice is reluctant, but firm. "You go too fast for me, Crowley."

For a moment, they both stare at the flask, acknowledging without words the potential for ruin that sits between them, innocuously wrapped in a safe, familiar pattern. Then Aziraphale gets out of the car, and Crowley has to drive away. He drives slowly; he doesn’t want to leave Aziraphale behind.

Somehow, despite everything, it feels as though he’s the one standing alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical References: Nothing outside of canon, really.


	25. Tadfield, 2008 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? An extra chapter that didn't happen in Blood and Straw? Another one? You betcha. And there are going to be several more in the next decade's worth of fic, so... that's a thing to look forward to and/or dread. Anyway. Enjoy!
> 
> TW: book-compliant consideration of infant aerodynamics. i.e. there is brief consideration of disposing of the baby Antichrist.

Crowley signs for the baby - the  _ Antichrist  _ \- and exchanges glib farewells with his fellow demons in a sort of fugue state. The feeling of unreality only intensifies as Satan takes over his radio and, subsequently, his brain. He snaps out of it as Satan leaves, just in time to steer out of the way of an oncoming lorry, but it’s not until he’s half a mile down the road, the basket sliding around on the backseat, that he dares to stop and take a breath.

A baby. All this time, trying to hide a baby from Hell, hoping against all hope that they will never know - and now they’ve given him one. Not to raise, not to nurture, not to protect - just to deliver. To give up. To hand over. And when he has handed the child over, the world will come to an end. There will be no more humans, no more mischief or slacking off, no more  _ Aziraphale. _ And then, when everything else is gone, there will be a war. A great and terrible war, every angel fighting every demon, on and on, until only one side is left.

_ Crowley’s  _ baby will be in that war. Crowley can’t win; if Hell wins, the two beings in the world that he loves most will be destroyed, or wounded, or subjugated. If Heaven wins, Crowley will never see them again. Neither is an acceptable outcome.

He reaches into the backseat, picks up the basket and weighs it in his hands. If he simply threw the infant Antichrist into the darkness, just swung his arm back and forward again and released it… he’d be in trouble, but Armageddon would be delayed. Even just a few more months. A few more months on Earth, with Aziraphale... if he didn’t spend the whole time in the torture pits. But a little while longer for Aziraphale to read, and collect snuffboxes, and make unfairly enticing noises while eating pastries. That would be worth it. He’d pay any price for that.

He takes a deep breath… and makes the mistake of looking down into the open basket.

The baby destined to end the world looks trustingly back up at him, eyes wide. Crowley looks back and feels his heart clench painfully. He’s just a baby, this little infernal child, just a baby born with a secret he never asked for. And he’s looking back at Crowley as if he’s  _ safe  _ with him. As if Crowley would  _ never  _ think of hurling a helpless infant into a darkened field at the side of a road.

“Yeah, alright,” he tells the baby, and reaches in to touch his cheek. The baby watches him, silent and contented. “Let’s find you somewhere safe to grow up.”

He delivers the baby to the convent, as instructed, and drives away. But he can’t quite shake the memory of that little face looking up at him.

“Call Aziraphale,” he tells his phone, and snarls at the error message he hears. He will never tell Aziraphale, but the angel’s right; his plans always do contain the seeds of his own destruction.

He stops at a phonebox.

“Aziraphale, it’s me. We need to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No historical references this time, just stuff from the show.


	26. London, 2008 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's going to be a fair bit of 2008 in this fic by the time it's done, I think. Enjoy!

Crowley does everything he can think of to tempt Aziraphale to help him, but the angel won’t be swayed. They end up back at the bookshop, drinking their way through more alcohol than your average human sees in a year, and Crowley can feel his attempts to persuade him going wildly off-course. He’s singing the praises of the ocean, for some reason, when Aziraphale suddenly gets a predatory look in his eye and stalks towards him like a lion on the hunt.

"A-angel? What's that look for?"  
"What look?"

"Like I'm a crêpe. Or a… a…"

"Delicacy?" Crowley nods. "I'm sorry, my dear. I don't mean to be untoward."

"No, it's…"

"I haven't seen you in, what, forty years? I thought- well, I was concerned- and now here you are, you see."

"Here I am," Crowley mumbles, wondering absently why there doesn’t seem to be any air in his lungs all of a sudden.

"Right here, and I shouldn't try to kiss you."

"No?" It sounds like a wonderful idea to Crowley. He can’t think of anything more important than Aziraphale kissing him, right now.

"No, we should- should talk. 'S the end of the world.” Oh. Well, there is that. “And we're drunk."

"Don't have to stay drunk."

"Shouldn't kiss you. Don't have time. Important."

"No," Crowley agrees reluctantly, trying to resist the urge to visibly sulk.

"May I?" Aziraphale asks, and Crowley drags him closer.

"Yesssssss."

Before he really knows what’s happening, he’s on the floor, Aziraphale on top of him, and perhaps he should care that there are more comfortable places they could be or that he’s trapped beneath his mortal foe’s body, but he doesn’t. All he can think of is _Aziraphale_ , of the way they intersect, the way the angel’s hips shift down to meet Crowley’s own restless movements. He groans as they part, panting for breath. He wants to keep going. He wants to be with Aziraphale forever, just like this, until the world crashes down around them-

"Wait, no," he gasps as his braincells reluctantly come back online, "we've gotta- sober up, 's no time."

"No time-?"

"Ssssober up, angel." He takes his own advice, the pounding in his head making him wince. "Had to stop before we got carried away, angel, the world's ending. At least, it will if we don't stop it."

"We can't stop it, Crowley, it's the Great Plan." He’s still not convinced, still won’t help. Crowley _needs_ him to help, because- because- well, because Jorael, of course. Because they can’t - the three of them can’t - they can’t be plunged into a war to end all things, where at least one member of their fragmented family has to lose and so they all will. They can’t lose the Earth, the only place Aziraphale and Crowley have ever been able to be together. They can’t lose _humanity_ , with all its creations and temptations and wonders. They can’t let it all fall apart.

Crowley stands and makes his way back over to the sofa, relieved when Aziraphale takes his usual chair. If he’d taken the seat next to Crowley, he knows he’d have got sidetracked again.

"Remind me about the Great Plan, angel. How does it go?"  
"Well, the Earth ends. The seas boil, the kraken rises, all those things you were just saying. Gorillas, and so forth. Very sad, but necessary." He’s not getting the point; Crowley presses on.

"Yeah, if you say so- but then what?"

"A war." Aziraphale's voice cracks on the word, and Crowley’s heart cracks with it. "Between Heaven and Hell."

"And we'll all be there, squaring off across the battlefield, right? You. Me. Every demon, and every angel."

"Well… yes. I'm rather hoping we can avoid actually fighting one another-"

"Every angel, thrown into a war.” Aziraphale still doesn’t seem to have made the connection, so Crowley continues, “Not just the archangels and the principalities, not just the old ones, but all of them. Including-"

"Our child.” At last, the angel is with him, and he doesn’t look happy about it. “And you'd have to stand against them."

"So you see why we have to stop it.” At least, Crowley hopes he does. He can’t do anything about this on his own, he’s not strong enough, but with Aziraphale at his side - well, with Aziraphale’s help he’s sure he can do _anything._

"But- I can't help you. If I do- if they catch me working against the Great Plan, they know how they can hurt me. What if they do something to our child?"

But Jorael might die in the war, will never know Earth’s joys unless they keep it all safe for them.

"Then we won't get caught. Angel, we can't let them throw our child into a war. I won't fight them, you know I won't, but the rest of Hell-"

"Oh. Oh, no."

Aziraphale is silent for a long moment, and then-

"If only the Antichrist hadn't made it." He looks sick to the stomach at the very idea of it, at the fact that the thought crossed his mind at all, and Crowley can’t let him think he’s uniquely awful for considering the child’s death.

"I thought about it," Crowley mumbles, more ashamed than he’s ever been of anything, "but he's just a kid." The little boy is a blank slate, an empty vessel waiting to be filled with all humanity’s knowledge, all Hell’s power… He looks up, hope flaring. "It's all about the influences, really."

They agree to influence the Antichrist, Aziraphale for good and Crowley for evil.

“Does he really _need_ your influence?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley freezes.

“Er. Yeah. Got to be, got to be balanced. And Hell probably wants me there anyway.” It’s a lie, but he hopes Aziraphale can sense the truth beneath it. _Please understand. I can't walk away again. I can't let this one go, too._

“Oh, yes, quite right.” Aziraphale nods. “Godfathers, then.”


	27. London, 2008 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the break, we had a four-year-old to contend with last week and it turned out to be pretty hard to get a moment to write and update. Now it's NaNo, but I'm hoping to keep updates coming fairly regularly. Enjoy this one!

Crowley’s not sure how they get from  _ godfathers  _ to  _ the nanny _ , but they must do, because just a few weeks later she’s standing on the Dowling’s doorstep, waiting for admittance. They don’t need a nanny, or at least they didn’t think they did, but young Warlock has had a very screamy sort of night and by some miracle, here Nanny Ashtoreth is. The answer to all their problems.

It doesn't take long to convince the Dowlings that they should hire her right away, and after a phone call to her previous employer - Aziraphale, using his very best telephone voice and, frankly, hamming it up a bit - they see no reason not to show her straight up to the nursery and leave her to it. The moment she's alone, she closes the door and leans against it for a minute, gathering her courage. Then, taking a deep breath, she approaches the crib.

"Hello, little one. Remember me?" The infant, of course, slumbers on. "No, I don't expect you do, but I remember you." If she tells herself that often enough, she might be able to ignore the way her own child's features seem to have blended with the memory of the night she dropped Warlock off at the convent. "I couldn't just leave you to fend for yourself. Not this time. Only now… now I have to look after you. And you… oh, you remind me so much of them. My baby. Perhaps you always will."

Warlock stirs, just then, scrunches his little face up and prepares to scream. Crowley hesitates for only a moment; if she is to be Warlock's nanny, she will have to hold him at some point. She gathers him into her arms and waits for the crying to start. But Warlock doesn't cry, he just opens his eyes and looks up at her curiously.

Of course - this baby is the Antichrist, infernal like her. He wouldn't be upset by her demonic presence, not the way her own angelic child was. Crowley rocks him gently in her arms and he settles back into sleep. It could be a problem, she supposes, when Aziraphale joins them in a few months. Perhaps the Antichrist will object to the angel. There's a tiny part of her that almost hopes so - that hopes Aziraphale will understand some portion of how she felt in that stable all those years ago.

She comes to quite enjoy it, actually, soothing Warlock when he’s upset and feeding him when he’s hungry. She likes that he needs her, even though he doesn’t really - he has parents, he would be just fine if she wasn’t there - and by the time Aziraphale arrives, she’s become genuinely fond of the child. She’s fond enough of him that it almost doesn’t hurt any more, only a little, only when he catches her off guard with some new mannerism that makes her wonder if her own child shares it.

When Aziraphale arrives, Crowley takes Warlock out to meet him. Aziraphale umms and ahhs, fussing over the ties of his smock and the way his hat sits, and barely even looks at her or the Antichrist hes supposed to be influencing until Crowley unceremoniously dumps the infernal infant into the angel’s arms.

Warlock doesn’t cry. Aziraphale blinks down at him twice, says “oh, hello,” and declares that he needs to go and strengthen his cover story by getting started on the garden. Crowley barely has time to feel a pang of heartache, looking at her angel holding a baby that isn’t theirs, before Aziraphale hands him back and is gone.


	28. London, 2012 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry - with NaNo and a FATE campaign to juggle writing, I may end up updating a little less often. I'll try to keep up, but I'm afraid the things with deadlines are likely to take priority for now. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

Crowley is doing her best. She is trying to influence the Antichrist to evil, to satisfy her side. And she is trying to influence him to good, too, because Satan knows Aziraphale isn't helping.

He barely comes near the house, barely looks at Warlock or Crowley. Crowley's not a fool; she knows it must be hard for the angel. The last time he saw her so close to a baby… But it's hard for her, too - hard to see Warlock grow into a little boy, to hear him speak his first words and watch him take his first steps. She never had that chance with Jorael.

So it's not that she doesn't understand. It's not that she's not sympathetic, even. But she's the one who has to smile brightly and thank Warlock when he hands her a picture he's drawn. She's the one who has to tuck him in at night, sing him lullabies and soothe his nightmares. She loves Warlock, a love that crept up on her when she wasn't looking and dug in deep; she can't help but love him now, and she's going to lose him, too, one way or another.

Surely Aziraphale can stand to give the Antichrist a few lessons in morality. He can, and he must. Crowley cannot bear this burden alone.

"Shall we go out to the garden, lamb?" She makes the offer once a week, occasionally twice, and Warlock's face always lights up.

"And go see Brother Francis?"

"And go and see Brother Francis," she confirms, and he rushes to try to get his shoes on. She helps him lace them up, bundles him into his coat, and walks with him through the garden until they spot Aziraphale.

Crowley longs to go to him, to observe the bittersweet sight of Aziraphale talking to a child who isn't theirs. She has seen him with so many children, all older than Warlock, and it never fails to warm her heart and break it all at once. But she knows, from experience, that if she walks over there with Warlock's hand in hers, Aziraphale won't look at either of them. He won't give Warlock the attention and guidance he needs.

So she squeezes Warlock's hand, and lets it go.

"Go on, lamb. Run to him. I'll see you in half an hour or so."

And Warlock does as he's told, barrelling into Aziraphale's legs. The angel turns, and for a moment he looks up, over Warlock's head, directly into Crowley's eyes. He holds her gaze, even as he steadies Warlock with gentle hands on the boy's shoulders.

Crowley inclines her head stiffly in greeting, and then, as Aziraphale turns his full attention to Warlock at last, she turns on her heel and walks away.


	29. London, 2014 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay - I didn't want to rush this chapter, and NaNo has proven a little more difficult than I'd hoped this year. That's also why I'm so behind on answering comments - sorry about that, I am reading and appreciating them! The next chapter is more or less done (it was originally part of this one but it got LONG) so hopefully there won't be such a long wait. Anyway, here be smut. Enjoy!
> 
> TW here for mild sexual threat (unintentional, and the being in question is never in actual danger) and a character battling a fair amount of anxiety during some very consensual sex.

Crowley doesn’t see much of Aziraphale at the Dowlings’; if she’s with Warlock, Aziraphale can’t look at him, and Crowley finds it hard to focus when she sees Aziraphale with him, too. They meet on buses, never sitting together, always alert to any danger. If they are seen together outside of the Dowling estate, it’s all over. They’re done for. So they make sure that they aren’t seen together, and they keep each other safe.

For Warlock's sixth birthday, though, the Dowlings arrange a visit to his grandparents back in the States, and Crowley’s presence is not required. The whole staff, in fact, is stood down, with just a handful of Secret Service agents left to protect the property.

Crowley sleeps for a day and a half, making the most of not having a little hellion sapping her energy with endless games of chase and mischievous antics. When she wakes, in the end, it’s to the sound of Lydia, the Dowlings’ cook, being thoroughly seen to in the next room. She’d mentioned that her partner would be visiting; she hadn’t said anything about how  _ loud  _ they were together. Crowley lies in bed and tries to block it out for about ten minutes before she realises they’re not going to run out of energy any time soon.

She gets up with a groan, gets dressed, and heads downstairs in search of coffee, only to remember that Lydia’s room is directly above the kitchen. Moreover, one of the Secret Service agents that plague the house - Crowley has never bothered to learn to tell them apart, and Warlock calls them all by the same name anyway - is already leaning against the counter by the coffee machine, sipping from a steaming mug. Crowley gathers all her patience and stares pointedly at the machine, waiting for him to take the hint and move.

“Lotta noise, huh?” Stan says, and Crowley just raises an eyebrow and reaches for a mug from the draining board. If Warlock had been there to see the expression on her face, he’d be running for the hills by now, but he’s not, and Stan is, apparently, not as perceptive as a five-year-old.

“Could make a guy jealous, almost.” He shifts aside, just enough for Crowley to squeeze by and reach the coffee machine at last. She can feel the shape of his gun in its holster, pressed against her as she waits impatiently for the machine to work. Then he turns. “Maybe you and me could make some noise of our own, whaddya say?”

Crowley’s first thought is to throw her coffee in his face, but she’s been through too much to get it and the last thing she needs is to get fired now, with five years left until the end of the world. Her second thought is the knife rack, which is worse. Instead, she grits her teeth, fights her instincts, and lets him down gently.

“I’m afraid I have plans for today,” she tells him, in as even a tone as she can manage, “and the rest of the week looks rather busy too.”

“Sure, OK, whatever.” Stan doesn’t look as if it’s OK, but he doesn’t look aggressive, either. Crowley isn’t going to have to explain away a discharged firearm, at least. “Coulda just said no, ‘s no problem.”

“No, then,” she tells him firmly, and then, hating herself for it, “no, thank you.”

She does not flee into the garden - she walks, sedately, and finds a nice bench among the flowers to sit on as she drinks her coffee - and she certainly doesn’t drink as fast as she can before miracling the mug back into the kitchen and rushing to Aziraphale’s.

She does not want to sleep with Secret Service Stan; the thought makes her flesh crawl. But she does find herself oddly jealous of Lydia’s exploits, and she knows  _ exactly  _ who she wants. Who she has always wanted. The one person in the world that she shouldn’t have to be scared of, because she’s so sick of being scared. Crowley acts cool, but she’s scared so often that she’s afraid it’s wearing away the corners of what makes her  _ her,  _ leaving nothing but a smooth, round ball of anxiety. She wants to be whole, to be herself, sharp corners and spikes and all. And she wants to feel safe being herself - being anything she wants, doing anything she wants - with Aziraphale.

She knocks on his cottage door before she can talk herself out of it. It’s barely a cottage; it was a shed when they arrived, but Aziraphale clearly wanted his own space, and  _ she shouldn’t be invading it-  _ but before she can turn and walk away, the door opens. Aziraphale looks surprised, but far from displeased, to see her.

"Lydia's partner is visiting," she tells him flatly, "loudly and vigorously, and when I went downstairs to get away from the noise, one of the Secret Service lot suggested we make our own noise, him and me."

"What? Which one?" He looks as if he means to avenge her honour, the great fool. Oh, how she loves him.

"I don't know. Stan. In my head, they're all Stan. Secret Service Stan, the Secret Service Man. That's what Warlock calls them." She sighs. "Anyway, I thought… well, I'd rather make noise with you."

"Oh. Oh, well, that's very gratifying-"

"Or not," she adds, hurriedly. Of course Aziraphale doesn’t want her, not here, in this place so charged with emotions and glimpses of what they almost had. He certainly doesn’t want her propositioning him so blatantly, so plainly; Aziraphale is a romantic at heart. She’s messed it up, but she doesn’t want to leave. She misses him. "Maybe we could just talk? Since I'm here, I mean."

"No!" Perhaps he sees her face fall. "I mean- yes- of course, come in and- and talk, or- or make noise. If you like."

"Well, I wouldn't want to impose-"

"Come  _ in, _ Crowley."

He sounds faintly amused, and an answering smile teases at the corners of her mouth as she steps past him, turning in a slow circle to take in his architectural miracles. It’s a nice cottage, and she’s intrigued to see what he’s made, but she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t trying to give him a good view of her corporation, too. She looks good today, and she knows it; she refuses to let Secret Service Stan be the only one to appreciate it.

"I like what you've done with the place."

"Thank you." He hesitates. "I like what you've done with… er, you."

"Oh, really?" She can’t help but smile at that; it’s been a while since she went all-out with her feminine presentation, but she well remembers how he liked it at Golgotha. Perhaps it’s a preference she’s never noticed. "Nanny does it for you, does she, angel?"

_ "You, _ ah, do it for me." The angel’s eyes are wide and dark; she has him in the palm of her hand, as always. It’s a reassuring feeling. "If you'd be more comfortable-"

"I'm comfortable if you are, angel." She spots an armchair and deliberately bends over the back of it to put her handbag down. There’s not much to look at, rump-wise, but she hopes Aziraphale will see some sort of sexual potential in the position. For a moment, there’s silence, and she thinks she’s failed, but then he clears his throat.

"Crowley, if you want us to talk, you might like to sit down." His voice sounds tight and carefully controlled, as if he’s struggling to keep his composure.

"And if I want to make noise?" She dares a glance over her shoulder, afraid she’s pushing too hard, but before she can worry about it Aziraphale is pressing against her. The hard shape she feels this time is definitely not a gun. 

"I can help," he tells her, lips brushing her ear before they move down her neck, "just tell me what you want and it's yours."

"Just take me," Crowley murmurs, and feels him freeze. "Right here, push my skirt up and-"

"That doesn't sound very comfortable for you, my dear." There’s a wariness to his voice she doesn’t like, as if he’s trying to manage a spooked horse. In her experience, horses never take well to being managed, either.

"Don't need comfortable. Just a good seeing-to." But he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, and she turns in his arms with a sigh. "You don't want that."

"That's not it and you know it. Crowley, I don't want you to be uncomfortable."

"Uncomfortable is being propositioned by a man wearing a gun, angel. Bending me over a chair and fucking me in my best clothes, that's nothing." It sounds good, actually, it sounds exciting and dangerous and  _ incredibly  _ arousing.

"You deserve more than nothing," Aziraphale tells her, and she wants to scream. "But if that's what you want… be clear with me. Where- how- ah, I only mean that I know you have concerns-"

"Ashtoreth doesn't," Crowley murmurs, between the kisses she’s pressing to his neck. She can’t look at him; he’ll see right through her. He’ll see the lie. "I've decided. She just wants to be the gardener's bitch."

She’s hoping the vulgarity will distract him. It doesn’t.

"Crowley," he scolds her gently, "I don't think it works like that."

"Of course it does. Demons don't want gentle."

"You did, once."

"And look where it got me." There it is; there’s the truth of the matter. She is afraid, so very afraid that it will happen again, just as before. She cannot bear another child and lose them; she’ll fall apart, she’ll shatter into a million pieces and be scattered like the stars she once forged. But she doesn’t need to be afraid any more - humans have made great strides in family planning, she can have what she wants and not risk losing anything. Just because her pounding heart and her shaky breath don’t believe it doesn’t mean it’s not true.

He’s hard in his trousers; she runs a hand over the bulge in the fabric and feels him twitch, hot and heavy in her hand.  _ Don’t think too hard,  _ she tells them both silently,  _ just let yourself enjoy it.  _ But Aziraphale groans and catches her hand in his own.

"No, Crowley. I mean- not no, I'm not saying no. But we have time. Can we talk about this?"

"If we talk about it, I might change my mind." The confession is mumbled into his shoulder, but it’s too much to hope that he doesn’t hear.

"That's exactly why we should, my dear."

He leads her to the sofa, where they sit awkwardly on opposite ends, too far apart, and then he takes both her hands in his.

"Are you all right?"

"'M fine, angel."

_ "Uncomfortable is being propositioned by a man with a gun.”  _ He says it as if he’s quoting from a favourite book, as if the words carry weight, and it takes her a moment to recognise them as her own. Of course he would use her own words against her. Of course he would care. “Are you certain everything's-?"

"It was just on his belt; he probably didn't even think about it," Crowley assures him, as if it wasn’t at the very forefront of  _ her  _ mind throughout the exchange, "and I'm a demon. I was never in danger."

"But it bothered you."

"I'm tired of being afraid, angel!" She doesn’t mean to shout, but he doesn’t look as startled as she feels. She lowers her voice, just a little, just enough to seem relatively composed, and carries on. "I want to be able to do the things I enjoy - I enjoyed it, in Golgotha - and not worry about the risks. And Ashtoreth- having a character to hide behind- I thought it might help."

It takes her several seconds to steady her breathing, and Aziraphale waits patiently while she finds some sense of equilibrium.

"If…  _ if _ you want this… we need to talk it through first."

"It's not like it's- like it's some kind of hard kink.” She feels a fool as it is, and she doesn’t want to draw it out. If she changes her mind now, she’ll never gather her courage again. She’ll never be brave enough to ask for this one more time. “We don't need to negotiate-"

"I would like to. If you don't mind. I will not be responsible for making things worse."

"Angel-"

"Crowley. All I'm asking is that you tell me, in your own time, what you want and how I can make you feel safe. I'll tell you if there's anything I'm not happy to do. And then, if you'd like, you can even leave and come back in again, if you want to recapture that spontaneous feeling."

She hesitates; there is some appeal to that. She can at least tell him that’s something she wants, can’t she? That’s not weakness, it’s lust. Lust is perfectly demonic.

"You wanted to touch me the moment I walked in, didn't you?"

"Well. Yes."   
"Good. That works for me."

"And then…?"

Twenty minutes later - twenty minutes of halting, stilted conversation about prophylactics and failure rates and informed consent - Crowley knocks on Brother Francis’ door and waits impatiently to be admitted. When the door swings open, Crowley - no,  _ Nanny Ashtoreth _ \- wastes no time. 

"I want to make noise with you," she announces, and slips past him into the cottage.

"Oh, do come in, Ashtoreth."

This time, as she turns to look at her surroundings, she can feel his eyes on her all the way, as hot as the flames on that holy sword he- no, this is Ashtoreth and Francis, there’s no history stretching back to Eden. His gaze scorches her like the sun in the summertime, when he looks up from his weeding and their eyes meet.

"Like what you see?"

"Very much." It's barely a growl, and then he's kissing her hungrily, one hand on her hip and the other gently squeezing her rear. She laughs, the sound trapped between their lips.

"Let me put my handbag down before you start manhandling me. Didn't anybody ever teach you manners?"

That’s part of the script they’d agreed, a cue for him to let her move away; he waits obediently for her to resume her earlier position, bent over the back of the armchair, and then he pins her against it, just as she’s asked. "You wanted to make some noise."

"Maybe you should give me a  _ reason _ to make some noise."

He kisses her neck, then, his lips tracing a path for his teeth to follow. She will keep all the marks she can, for as long as they’ll stay; she is  _ his _ , always his, and she doesn’t care who on earth knows it. He slips a hand up under her skirt and she shivers as it traces over lace-topped stockings and up to her matching underwear. It’s not long before he shifts his fingers forward to find heat.

"You're so wet," he murmurs, and she can’t help but rub herself against him.

"And you're hard."

It doesn’t come out as sultry as she’d hoped; there’s an audible hitch in her voice that’s partly - but not entirely - down to the way his fingers have strayed. He pauses.

"OK?" She nods urgently. "Can I take these off?"

"I wish you would."

He drags the flimsy fabric down her legs and presses gentle kisses to the backs of her knees, threatening to make them buckle.

"Angel," she breathes, before remembering the roles they’re playing. "Get back up here, will you?" And when he straightens up, she reaches out and pulls him towards her so she can kiss him. His hand moves under her skirt again, teasing, no doubt waiting for permission.

"Beautiful," he whispers, and a surge of love overwhelms her, shaking her whole body. It’s not what she asked for, because she didn’t know she needed it, but oh, Satan, she does. She leans forward again, offering him better access to the most private parts of her body, and he begins opening her up with gentle fingers. She closes her eyes and allows herself to enjoy it, the tension in her thighs her only concession to nerves. They haven’t done this, this way - with these mismatched parts - since Golgotha, since the night her whole life changed forever. She’s not afraid of Aziraphale, she’s not unwilling - but she is nervous. He knows, of course. He’s probably nervous too.

She fishes a condom out of her handbag - as if she hasn’t just miracled it out of thin air, because of course Ashtoreth can’t do that - and holds it out to him. Aziraphale was very insistent, when they talked, that she should be honest about whether she trusts it, and she does. She knows that humans rely on these strange little devices to prevent pregnancy, she knows they work almost all the time. She is a demon; if she has faith in something to work, it will. She just has to believe it will work, and she does. She  _ does. _

“Here. Go ahead.” He presses closer to reach it and she almost chokes on a breath - he’s so close, they’re so close, and what if he doesn’t put it on right? What if it falls off and he doesn’t notice? What if, what if-

"Crowley," he murmurs, interrupting her rapidly-spiraling thoughts. "Turn around, just a moment." 

She turns, prepared to give him hell for not trusting her to set her own limits- and he places the packet back in her hand.

"Help me with it?"

"Of course you don't know how a condom works," she grumbles under her breath, but she can’t tell if it’s fear or relief that causes the tremble in her hands as she unbuttons his trousers.  _ She _ knows how to do this; how many times, over the past few decades, has she practiced exactly this, trying to work up the courage to put her faith in this most vital of human technologies? He gasps as she rolls the condom over him, and she smiles before she turns back around, bending once more to offer herself up.

"Oh, how I want you," he whispers to the space between her shoulder blades, but she’s focused on the way he’s pushed her skirt up, the way he’s so close to being inside her again. It’s going to be fine. It’s going to be  _ good.  _ Just as long as she doesn’t show him that she’s nervous; she doesn’t want him to back down unless  _ he  _ wants to. And he doesn’t seem to want to back down.

"Go on, then. Preferably before the world ends."

He slowly presses into her, fingers stroking at her hips as he does, and for a moment she’s caught off-guard by how  _ different  _ it is. In Golgotha, he’d gazed into her eyes as if they weren’t a demon’s; he’d kissed and caressed and reassured her. She wanted this to be different, she  _ asked  _ for it to be different, but just for a moment she longs to look at him, to feel the intimacy of their joining. But it would be too much, she knows it would, and this can’t be like last time. She needs it not to end like last time, and she needs to feel the difference. This is good; this is perfect. There will, she hopes, be other times for softness. This is not about her and Aziraphale and the overwhelming, all-encompassing love she feels between them; this is a nanny having a fling with a gardener, no strings, no feelings, no fear. There’s no room for fear as the pleasure of being filled takes over.

"Ohhhhh, yesss, angel, that's- oh, yeah, that's good." It’s embarrassing, the noise she’s making, but perhaps Ashtoreth is vocal in bed. That’s not a bad thing. It’s nothing to do with Crowley, anyhow.

"Perfect," Az-  _ Brother Francis  _ murmurs, as he comes to rest against her back, "you're perfect."

"Move," she whispers, and he does.

Crowley comes undone first; his hand is working her even as he ruts into her, his lips and teeth drawing her attention to her shoulder and neck between thrusts. It’s too much, and it’s not enough, all at the same time; she can’t see him, but she can’t mistake him, and it’s  _ perfect,  _ pinned to the armchair by her lover. She cries out, and he slows, easing her through it before he asks a question she’s not expecting.

"Do you want me to pull out? I can- if you'd rather- I don't have to be inside you when I spend."

It’s so like him, to be so considerate, and she’s glad he’s taking the trouble to look after her, but the last thing she needs right now is second thoughts.

"You're still wearing it?"

"Of course-"

"Then stay. Carry on. I want you to- I  _ want _ you to."

"You're sure?"

"Angel." She turns to look at him over her shoulder, vaguely aware of her sunglasses lying abandoned on the seat below her. "I've spent a long time running away. You don't need to do it for me." She shifts her body backwards as she speaks, teasing, tempting, and he barely lasts a minute more before his hands grab at her hips again and he stills, spent.

They stay there, for a moment, motionless except for the heaving of their chests. They have done it; she’s done it, he’s helped to chase away her fears, they’ve  _ won.  _ Just for a moment, the world is perfect and they’ve won. Then reality seeps in; they’re tired and sticky and there’s a condom to dispose of. That done, they go to bed; rather, Aziraphale goes to bed and drags Crowley along with him. She goes willingly, shoving him down against the pillows. He looks exhausted, and well he should, after that performance.

“I know you don’t sleep much, but. Sleep.”

"Lie with me?" He offers, and she lets out an impatient little huff, just for show, before dropping down beside him.

"Do you want me to tell you how wonderful it was? How marvellous? How irresistible your sexual magnetism is?" She rolls her eyes, hiding behind sarcasm in the full awareness that he can see right through her. "Well, I'm giddy enough to be honest, I suppose, so I'll give you that."

"Oh. Well, that's… that's very…" He’s blushing; it’s hopelessly endearing, which Crowley will never admit. "Thank you. But… you're not worried? You feel all right?"

"Fine, angel. I feel good." She gathers all her strength and lets it out in a weary sigh before asking for what she wants, in the only way she can. "I suppose you'll want to cuddle, now."

"Would you mind?" 

She’s already getting comfortable, her head on his chest. But she’s barely settled when she realises she has to break the spell. "I'll be gone when you wake up. Safer that way."

"Stay until I'm sleeping?"

"You drive a hard bargain. Yeah, I'll stay."

He hangs onto consciousness for a long while, stroking Crowley’s hair, until Crowley realises that it’s only getting harder to think of peeling herself out of his grasp. No sooner has she thought it than he goes limp; she hopes she hasn’t miracled him to sleep by accident. It feels unfair, somehow. But she has to go, and so she disentangles herself reluctantly from his grasp and returns to her room.


	30. London, 2014 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for brief panic attack (Crowley). Also, I didn't really expect where this went so apologies if you're not keen on it. 
> 
> Anyway, it follows on immediately from the previous chapter. I hope you enjoy it!

Crowley takes a deep breath as she closes the door behind her, leaning on it for a second as she takes in the room that is her refuge at the Dowlings’ house.

Lydia has fallen blissfully silent; perhaps she and her partner have gone out to dinner or something. They can do that, they can be seen together in ways Crowley and Aziraphale never can. Crowley drops onto her bed and stares at the ceiling, her heart pounding. She’s pleased that they’ve finally repeated the feat that got them into so much trouble all those years ago, pleased that it feels as though all possibilities are open to them again at last, and she’s a little proud of herself for finding a way to make it happen. She has wanted this, wanted to be free of the terror that has restricted her actions, and she has let fear stand in her way for far too long.

She sighs, shifting slightly on the mattress, feeling an unfamiliar ache in muscles she’d all but forgotten about - and that’s when her stomach seems to twist brutally, her internal organs clenching in horror.  _ What if it didn’t work? _ She tries to calm herself, tries to remember that nothing went wrong, tries to remind herself that she can simply want very hard not to be pregnant and it will be so. It doesn’t help; she didn’t  _ want  _ to get pregnant last time, and yet, and yet-

For a moment, she’s not lying on her bed; straw scratches at her back and the world drifts away from her. She feels a sudden urge to scream, to run, to do  _ something  _ to make it not real, to make it different. If she could truly go back to this moment, she would, and she would gather her child into her arms and set off to the stars, to some barren planet where nobody would find them. Aziraphale, too, they could just… go off together. But she can’t go back, she knows she can’t, this is just a memory. Just a vivid, awful memory of being torn apart. The mattress beneath her feels soft again, and she can see the plastered ceiling of her little bedroom. She is safe. She has to hold onto that knowledge. She is safe, and what she and Aziraphale have just done won’t change that. It’s just sex. Safe, sensible sex that won’t result in a pregnancy.

Crowley picks up her smartphone - she loves the thing, it answers all her endless questions without judging her or getting irritated or  _ casting her out _ \- and begins a search for information, because that’s the only thing she can think to do. Answers, she needs answers, those are what will bring her comfort - and sure enough, she finds them. The most pressing question she has is  _ how soon can I be sure? _ \- and the answer, though not quite what she’d like, at least gives her some idea of when to panic. When not to panic.

She survives the next month by counting little signs, signs that may or may not mean anything. She doesn’t feel sick, even when Lydia starts cooking garlic one night. She doesn’t feel any nesting instincts, as a bird might. She doesn’t get hungry, she doesn’t feel extra protective of Warlock when he returns, and she doesn’t feel she has to push him away to make room for a child of her own. She realises, of course, that none of those behaviours are exactly necessary - or even usual - in a human pregnancy, but she’s not human.

She sees Aziraphale in the garden, the day before Warlock’s return, and almost ducks down behind the nearest bush to avoid him. It’s not that she doesn’t want to see him, it’s just that her every instinct is telling her that she’s in danger, all the time, and she doesn’t want him to see it in her eyes.

He does, of course.

“Are you all right, Crowley? You look… a little off.”

“Thank you, Brother Francis, that’s exactly the look I was aiming for.”

He rolls his eyes at that, but he does switch back into his Brother Francis voice. There’s no sense in them getting caught out now, after all.

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m fine,” she tells him, and then, “I’ve just been having trouble sleeping, is all.”

“Oh. Oh, I do hope it’s not because of-”

“What do you mean?” If he’s heard that trouble sleeping is a symptom of pregnancy, she wants to know about it. But he shakes his head.

“Only that I hope you’re not worried about what we did. I would hate to have caused you any undue stress.”

Crowley thinks her stress is entirely due, but she says nothing. There’s no sense in both of them worrying about it, after all.

When a month has passed, and still nothing conclusive has been proven either way, she realises she can’t just go on hoping for the best, fearing the worst. She takes advantage of her afternoon off, for once, and goes into town. She buys a pregnancy test, and she takes it, and it’s negative. After all the fear, all the worry, it’s  _ negative. _

She expects the relief that crashes over her like a wave; what she doesn’t expect is the disappointment that follows it. She doesn’t  _ want  _ to be pregnant, she  _ can’t _ \- she can’t go through it all again, can’t give up another child to Heaven. She would have to, she reminds herself, it’s still the only way she could hope to keep them safe. Jorael is  _ safe _ , alive and well and part of the Heavenly Host. It’s still the only option she would have, she knows that. And yet some part of her must have been holding its breath for another chance, a chance to make a different choice. To run away with Aziraphale and their child and pretend there isn’t a hole in her heart, in her  _ life,  _ where Jorael should be.

She’s not pregnant. That’s a good thing.

It’s good.

And that negative result, regardless of her other feelings on the matter, offers her total sexual freedom. She and Aziraphale can do anything, as long as they take precautions, as long as Crowley keeps her mind clear and remembers that she is safe. They are safe.

It’s good.


	31. London, 2014 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should this probably have been part of last chapter? Yes. Could the story probably have done without it? Also yes. But I'm including it anyway. Enjoy!

Three and a half weeks after Warlock's return from America, Crowley slips out to knock on Aziraphale's door after dark. She half-expects him to open it wearing an old-fashioned nightcap and carrying a candle, so she's relieved to see him still fully dressed and awake. Of course, Aziraphale rarely sleeps.

"Crowley?" He's obviously surprised to see her, but he steps aside to invite her in before ushering her through to his sitting room.

She perches on the armchair and immediately regrets it as memories of the last time she was acquainted with that particular piece of furniture flood her mind. She glances at Aziraphale to find him watching her, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips- but she mustn't be distracted. She's here for a reason, and she won't be distracted.

"I came to let you know," she tells him, keeping her eyes fixed on the wall behind him, "that I'm not pregnant."

"Oh, I'm glad to hear it," Aziraphale answers lightly, and she wonders if he's understood. 

"I took a test, and it was negative," she clarifies, and he hums in acknowledgement.

"It's always good to confirm such things."

"Yes. Well. Right. Good." She hesitates. "You're pleased?"

"Well, it's as we expected, isn't it? You don't have to be afraid any more."

That's when it hits her; he hasn't been worried about it at all. While Crowley's been losing sleep, cataloguing anything that might be a symptom and analysing its meaning, Aziraphale has been drifting contentedly through life as he always does. He hasn't worried that she might get pregnant, because he has faith. Pure, unwavering faith in Her, in _her,_ in human ingenuity. Crowley told him she believed that a condom would keep them safe, and so he believed it too, unquestioningly, with all his heart.

It's too dangerous to dispel his belief, even if she wanted to - it may have been the deciding factor that kept her safe. So she nods, and she keeps what's left of her own fear hidden deep down inside herself, and her voice is steady as she bids him goodnight.

"Just wanted to let you know," she says, instead of _I don't understand what I'm feeling_ , instead of _I was scared._ "I'll see you around, angel."

"Oh! Quite. Goodnight, Crowley."

He probably won't even remember this conversation, Crowley thinks as she returns to her room. It's probably for the best. After all, he has been certain they are safe for weeks. It's Crowley who needs to catch up, who needs to believe it.

And, at long last, she thinks she does.


	32. London, 2015 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I wasn't sure about how this one turned out and also the accidental subplot we seem to have gained by changing perspective. I know Aziraphale's not coming off very well in this one, but I think that's partly cos we're not seeing his side of it... Anyway, enjoy!
> 
> TW for some mild gender issues on Crowley's part.

It's rare that Aziraphale and Crowley's days off coincide; it's rarer still that as Crowley swings himself upright to get off the bus, Aziraphale half-looks up from his newspaper and murmurs _come to the shop, my dear._ His lips barely move, and Crowley's not even sure he hasn't imagined it by the time he reaches the bookshop. The locked door swings open when he touches it, though; that has to be a good sign.

"Are you in, angel?"

For a moment, the shop is still and silent, before Aziraphale calls out from the back room.

"Crowley! Do come through. I'm just sorting through some-" He straightens up from his desk and turns, beaming, as Crowley does as he's told. "I wasn't sure when you'd arrive."

"Well, it was on my way," Crowley lies. "I'm in no hurry to get back into that skirt," he admits, more truthfully. Aziraphale's face falls.

"Oh. Oh, dear, your gender's changed, hasn't it?"

"Sorry to disappoint," Crowley snaps, and Aziraphale looks even more upset. 

"Oh, no, I didn't mean- only that- well, you're in something of a bind, presentation-wise, aren't you?"

"Not a blessed thing I can do about it," Crowley confirms; the Dowlings are unlikely to accept him as he is, and he doesn't dare risk it with Armageddon on the line.

"Oh dear," Aziraphale repeats faintly, and then, as if the thought has just occurred to him, "well, at least you've the afternoon. You can be yourself here, whatever form that might take."

Crowley appreciates it; his gender shifts have never been predictable, and he'd hoped he might be able to get through a decade or so as a woman without incident. Usually, he just goes with the flow, identifying with and presenting as whatever feels right at any given moment, but he strongly suspects the Dowlings would react badly - and he can't just write it off as _their problem,_ this time. The fate of the world rests on his ability to stay where he is, doing what he's doing, with minimal miraculous intervention. So an afternoon of being purely himself with Aziraphale sounds like Hea- well. It sounds like perfection.

"What did you want me here for?" He asks, because they don't say _thank you,_ and Aziraphale blushes.

"Oh, nothing, it doesn't matter. Just make yourself comfortable, my dear-"

"I am comfortable." He is; he's just sprawled across his usual sofa and hooked one leg over the back of it as a nod to the general idea of manspreading. Aziraphale takes one look and glances away, muttering something under his breath that sounds a lot like _oh good Lord,_ and Crowley thinks he sees what the problem is.

_"Angel,"_ he all but purrs, "is this a _booty call?"_

"I don't know what you mean, and I'm almost certain it isn't." Aziraphale sniffs haughtily. "I simply thought we might spend some time together."

"And did you imagine that time including some nudity, by any chance?"

"Well." He still won't look at Crowley, which won't do at all. "I wouldn't be averse to the idea. If _you_ wanted to."

"And do you still- still want- that is, you were expecting me Eve-shaped, weren't you?"

"Do you really think that matters to me?" Aziraphale shakes his head. "I want _you,_ however you are."

"Well, I want you too," Crowley tells him simply, "so why don't you come and sit with me?"

There’s nowhere to sit on the sofa except between Crowley’s legs, and Aziraphale looks deeply uncertain about the situation as he looks between the sofa Crowley’s still patting invitingly and the armchair, safe and isolated across the room. Crowley sighs and sits up properly, making room.

“I’m sorry, angel. I don’t mean to- I didn’t-”

“I do want you,” Aziraphale tells him softly, “but I also want to _talk_ to you. It’s been so long since we could just spend time together, freely, without any pretence. Without any of these… complications.”

“Then we’ll talk,” Crowley says, a little lost. “I was only- it’s just- I thought that would be what you wanted.”

“Is it what _you_ want?” Aziraphale asks, and he’s not immediately prepared to answer. There’s a lot of space between yes and no, in this case, and he wants to make it clear how he feels.

“I want you, I always- it wouldn’t be unwelcome, not at all. I- I like it. But I want to talk to you, too. I would like to spend some time together. Just us. No pretending. No pressure.”

“Do you feel pressured?” Aziraphale looks more worried than ever, and Crowley shakes his head.

“Not with you.”

Aziraphale takes a seat beside him at last, folding his hands into his lap and looking at them as if he's concerned for their wellbeing. Then he opens his mouth and Crowley realises it's not his hands Aziraphale is worried about.

"I, er. I wanted to ask- that is. I realised-"

"What is it, angel?" He can't think of anything he's done recently that would cause Aziraphale concern; Warlock's been fine, and he's been promisingly _human_ so far. There's nothing-

"I tried to take a nap, last week."

Oh. Oh, that's never good. Aziraphale has never found sleep the blissful sanctuary of repose Crowley does, and the only times Crowley's known him to successfully sleep have been, well, post-orgasm. When Aziraphale _tries_ to sleep, he thinks instead. He tried for a quick nap in the early 1800s and immediately solved the mystery of the Voynich Manuscript, which had been driving him mad for centuries by that point[1]. If he's tried again recently, there's no telling what revelations might have been shaken loose.

"Whatever it is, I was probably just doing my job-"

"I realised that- well- when you came to tell me you weren't with child, that day-" Crowley scoffs at the quaint turn of phrase, hoping it might distract from the tension in his body. Aziraphale blunders on. "I mean, I could see you were- I just thought you were nervous about telling me- I tried so hard not to frighten you, and you were already frightened, weren't you?"

Crowley sighs.

“There was no need to be.” It’s not a denial. It’s not even a good misdirection. Aziraphale already knows the answer, anyway.

“Oh, _Crowley._ I- I _am_ sorry. I was trying so hard not to react as though we’d just dodged a bullet, as they say, that- I just, I thought you trusted it. You said-”

“I know what I said,” Crowley snaps, “and I did. I do. I just-” He doesn’t know how to go on. “It was fine until I got back to my room, and then…” His hand drifts to his own stomach, just for a second before he catches it and pulls it away. “I just needed to be sure. That’s why I took the test, and then I thought you’d want to know-”

“But Crowley, that was a month later. Surely you weren’t worrying about it for a month?”

Crowley says nothing, and Aziraphale’s face falls.

“Oh, my dear boy, why didn’t you say something?”

“When? When should I have said something, angel?” He can feel the stinging heat of tears threatening his eyes, and there’s nothing he can do to stop the anger spilling out of him. “When I was sitting behind you on the bus? When I told Warlock to run across the garden to you? Should I have used semaphore, angel? Or sent you a little note? Smoke signals? Carrier pigeons?”

“Crowley! I-” The angel looks absolutely _devastated_ , now, and that’s not what Crowley wants at all. “I haven’t been _that_ bad, have I?”

There has to be something he can say to fix things, Crowley thinks, but the words won’t seem to come. He doesn’t want Aziraphale to feel bad, but-

“Oh, _Crowley._ I… I suppose I have been taking the coward’s way, somewhat. Seeing you with Warlock, it- but of course it’s hard for you, too, and I- I should be pulling my weight.”

“You never even look at me,” Crowley tells him, treacherous tears scalding his cheeks, “not when I’m with Warlock, not when we’re out of the house… I can’t do it alone. And Warlock needs your guidance. And I- I need-” No. No, that won’t do at all. “I can’t tell you things if we never talk.”

“I’ll do better,” Aziraphale promises, and Crowley’s horrified to see that there are tears in his eyes, too. “I’ll do better, Crowley, I will. I’ll- I’ll spend more time with Warlock, and with you. And- and, well, I’m here now.”

“If Heaven and Hell weren’t interested,” Crowley begins, suddenly desperate to know, “would you- if they stopped caring tomorrow, would you want- if it happened again-?”

“Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale reaches out to draw Crowley closer until they’re almost nose to nose. “I want nothing more than your happiness.” It’s not an answer, but it’s probably the best he can manage at the moment; Crowley sighs and shifts until he can wrap himself around his angel, holding him close, feeling all the ways their bodies match just now and all the ways they differ.

“I think,” he murmurs, hardly aware of what he’s saying, “I would, if it was safe. But it’s not.”

Aziraphale’s arms tighten around him, and Crowley wonders if he’s heard. But he doesn’t dare to ask. He’s not sure, in the end, that he wants Aziraphale to know his weakness. After a moment, the angel hums softly to himself, as if he’s reached some sort of conclusion, and then he speaks at last.

“I do wish we could see our own child. I’d like to know they were all right.”

“Me, too,” Crowley admits. “But you’ll see Warlock?”

“Oh, yes.” The angel manages a weak smile. “You’ve been so brave all this time. It’s past time I started pulling my weight.”

They spend the afternoon talking about everything and nothing, and the conversation never comes back to their child, or the possibility of another. Crowley slowly allows himself to take up his normal amount of space in the bookshop, luxuriating in the way Aziraphale calls him _dear boy_ and the fact that nobody expects him to perform any degree of femininity. When it starts to get late and they have to head back to the Dowlings’ home, Crowley finds that fitting himself into Nanny Ashtoreth’s clothes and form feels less constricting than it had even just hours ago.

It helps, of course, to imagine Aziraphale having to take on the buck teeth and sideburns, setting his waistcoats aside for his gardener’s smock. They’re just playing roles, after all, and Aziraphale has promised to share the load more evenly. The game will be easier, now they’re playing as a team.

Of course, the stakes are still impossibly high. But together, perhaps they have a chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1It was Crowley's doing; of course it was Crowley's doing. Nothing inspires curiosity like an impossible mystery, after all.[return to text]


	33. London, 2018 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, I think we're back on track.
> 
> Crowley is still wrestling with his inability to change his gender presentation, so TW for that. And the end of the world approaches...
> 
> This might be another one where reading Aziraphale's corresponding chapter again pays off. Enjoy!

The afternoon of Brother Francis’ last full day is spent largely in the garden; Crowley sits and watches as Warlock and Aziraphale play for hours, making mud-pies and talking to insects. The ache in his heart is barely a twinge, now, after years to get accustomed to the sight of angel and child together, but it’s still something of a relief when Warlock, at long last, begins to droop. A quick bath and dinner, and Warlock is safely tucked up in bed, leaving Crowley free to move around the estate.

Naturally, he ends up at Aziraphale’s cottage; the angel takes one look at him, standing on the doorstep looking drained, and beckons him inside. Crowley barely waits for the door to close before he shifts into a more masculine form; Aziraphale doesn’t comment, but Crowley still feels as if he has to complain about Nanny’s shoes under his breath. Somehow, revealing his ongoing gender-related discomfort feels too much like showing a weakness, like inviting an intimacy even greater than those they’ve shared in the past. Aziraphale nods understandingly and leads him to his bed, lets him coil around him as far as his human shape allows. He  _ holds  _ him, which Crowley would never admit, even to himself, that he desperately needs.

"Not long, now," Crowley murmurs, more to start a conversation than because he thinks Aziraphale is unaware of his pending departure from the household, of the fast-approaching apocalypse, of the terrible deadline that looms before them.

"No," Aziraphale hums, "not long."

"Do you think we've done enough?"

"I suppose we'll find out."

"If we haven't… do you think they stand a chance?"

"Humanity?" Aziraphale shouldn’t play dumb; it doesn’t suit him.

"You know full well who I mean."

"Mm."

Crowley waits for an answer until he can’t bear it any more.

"Well?"

"I hope it doesn't come to that."

"Oh." Aziraphale is saying so much by saying nothing, and the worst thing is that Crowley knows he’s right. What chance can Jorael stand, really? What chance do any of them stand against the wrath of Heaven and Hell? "...Maybe they've had training," he tries to convince himself, the words sounding hollow even to his own ears. "Heaven's been preparing for war for half an eternity by now. Michael or someone, they'll have taught the rest to fight. They won't be completely unprepared."

"Maybe so." That’s not a confirmation, not the reassurance Crowley has hoped for that Heaven is, indeed, training its soldiers, so Crowley presses on in his attempt not to think about it.

"Probably kick my arse - kick both of our arses if they wanted to." But they won’t want to; they won’t be raising a sword against Aziraphale. It’s Crowley they’ll cut down, Heaven’s fire blazing in their eyes.

"I'm sure they're formidable," Aziraphale manages at last, and it sounds as if there's lump in his throat to match Crowley's. "Nothing to worry about."

"No. And Warlock's… he's a good kid."

"Exactly. It might not happen at all."

Silence falls, after that. Crowley finds himself, as always, drinking in every detail of Aziraphale’s face, committing it to memory, learning by heart the features his heart has always held close. There is nobody Crowley would rather spend the end times with, except perhaps the one being in the universe who is the living symbol of Crowley’s love for Aziraphale. The one being who stands as testament to the fact that at some point, for some amount of time, Aziraphale and Crowley were as one. Crowley can’t create stars any more, but together he and Aziraphale created Jorael, and that means something. It means so much.

"At least I know," Crowley admits at last. He would be in a much more precarious position if he didn’t know their child’s name; at least now he can  _ fight  _ in the war, can fight any angel but the two that are his. Surely an angel will be gracious enough to give a name before they strike.

"You know…?" Aziraphale is wearing a little frown, as if he doesn’t know what Crowley means, but there’s nothing else he  _ could  _ mean. Aziraphale, being an angel, has few secrets, and all of them pertain to their child. He offers a tiny point of clarification.

"I know. What you can't tell me. You don't have to, I know anyway." He doesn’t dare say more.

"What I-?" Aziraphale’s eyes widen in realisation all of a sudden, as if a bolt of inspiration has just struck from the blue.  _ "Oh." _

"I was- I was angry at first. I thought you were shutting me out. I was scared. And then I realised you couldn't tell me. Ducks have ears. It wasn't safe, still isn't. To say it out loud. But I know."

"Oh, Crowley." Aziraphale is looking at him with sympathy, with  _ pity, _ and it’s all Crowley can do to keep from hiding his face. He has nothing to be ashamed of; it’s Aziraphale who didn’t tell him. "How long have you known?"

"About a century and a half," Crowley tells him, and then curiosity overcomes him. He’s never known when or how Aziraphale found out who their child was. "How about you?"

"Much longer than that, I'm afraid. I just couldn't-"

"I know. I understand, it wasn't safe."

"And you-?"

Crowley surges forward, unable to resist bringing their lips together now that they finally understand one another, now that there are no secrets. He’s a little overenthusiastic, perhaps, and nearly crashes his nose into his angel’s, but he doesn’t care. They are together, at last, on the same page, as they haven’t been in a hundred and fifty years. They  _ know _ .

But they’re running out of time, and they can’t afford to let standards slip now. Crowley breaks the kiss with a sigh of reluctance and whispers into Aziraphale’s ear, as if giving bad news volume might attract more bad news.

"Angel, I have to go."

"But it's barely dark-"

"People will talk, and I don't want to risk being a scandalous influence on Warlock at the last minute."

"I leave tomorrow afternoon," Aziraphale murmurs, as if Crowley isn’t all too aware, and the demon can’t resist stealing a brief, chaste kiss before pulling away.

"I'll be there to say goodbye. After that… I'm only here for another six weeks. I'll see you before his birthday party."

It sounds like entirely too much time without Aziraphale, and entirely too little time before the end of the world. If they’ve done their jobs right, the world won’t end at all - but Crowley doesn’t have enough faith in either their abilities or their luck to believe that. It will end, and soon, and it seems the most unjust of tortures that he will have to spend that time without Aziraphale.

He can’t hesitate; if he does, he will climb back into bed with his angel and the world will end before he can drag himself away. So he moulds himself back into Nanny Ashtoreth’s form and walks out, desperately trying to sniff back the sob that threatens to escape him.

He pauses by the greenhouse to collect himself; he’s in serious danger of crying in earnest and he can’t afford that. If they’re still alive once the appointed time of Armageddon has come and passed, he might be able to break down then. For now, he has to be strong.

He has no idea what will happen in the coming weeks and months, but he does know one thing. He is more determined than ever that the world mustn’t end.


	34. London, 2019 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little one today - it felt like a moment that would hit Crowley hard and I do so love to torment the poor demon. Enjoy!

Crowley, dressed as a caterer and with his eyes still fixed on his ridiculous watch, can do little but look on in horror as Warlock’s birthday party descends into utter chaos. There’s no dog, and the dog was definitely supposed to be here by now. A Hellhound, to bay for the blood of the righteous and snap at the heels of the damned.

Sure enough, a quick check-in with Hell via the Bentley's radio confirms that the Hellhound has been dispatched as intended, and as he assures his bosses that it is a perfect specimen of particularly helly Hellhound Crowley can only think, _well, shit._ Something has clearly gone wrong, but it's not until he's turned the radio off that he even dares to think what it is, let alone say it.

"Wrong boy."

"Wrong boy."

For a moment, all he can think is that they’ve messed it up, their one chance to prevent the Apocalypse and save their child. And then it hits him; he will never see Warlock again. The boy he nursed through fevers and chickenpox, the boy he found himself loving despite all his best intentions, is no longer his responsibility or his concern. There’s no reason to come back and check on him in the future - if there even _is_ a future. Warlock will be as lost and unprotected as the rest of humanity, when the end comes, and it will come, because somewhere out there is the baby Crowley brought to the convent that night, and he hasn’t been protected all these years. He hasn’t been taught by an angel, guided towards righteousness or, at the very least, self-preservation - and he will know no better when the time comes to end it all.

Crowley’s breath catches at the unfairness of it all - all their pain, all their heartache, it’s all been for nothing because they were raising the wrong boy. At least on some level, their plan has worked - Warlock _isn’t_ going to bring about Armageddon, after all - but it’s still a bitter ending to years of hard graft.

They will never see Warlock again. That’s- Crowley has to forget about that, at least for now, because they very much need to find the _real_ Antichrist. A real nanny would have left by now, anyway, and she would set her feelings aside because her job was done. So Crowley has to do that, too, and not dwell on the thousand ways he has failed the children entrusted to his care.

They have to find the real Antichrist, and try one last time to prevent the coming End of Days. If they somehow pull that off, there’ll be time for tears afterwards. There certainly _isn't_ time _now._

Crowley pushes his glasses more firmly up his nose to hide the small rebellion taking place in his tear ducts, and puts the Bentley into gear.


	35. Tadfield, 2019 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, once again, be angst. The whole apocalypse is going to be a bit emotional, obviously!
> 
> I meant to post this yesterday but I forgot - I was running my first ever tabletop game as GM and it sort of consumed my thoughts. But here it is. Enjoy!

Crowley barely sees the young woman before she bounces off the bonnet of the Bentley. He barely sees her afterwards, honestly, though he keeps up a reasonable semblance of his usual needling at Aziraphale; the whole conversation is little more than a blur when he tries to look back at it afterwards.

Crowley has just seen Aziraphale shot - paint, a medium for creation used as a weapon of mock destruction - and the coming war seems very real now. They have failed; they don’t know who the Antichrist is, or where, and all that time spent trying to raise Warlock without stabbing him with any of the sharp edges of their own broken hearts has been wasted. The world is about to end, and without it there’s no place for him and Aziraphale to be together. There’s certainly no place they can be safe - and Jorael, the beloved child they’ve been missing for so long, might now be destroyed, just as Crowley suspects  _ he  _ will be. He can fight off any number of angels - at least, he’ll try, he has too - and demons, too, if they threaten those he loves. But he can’t fight off Jorael, and even if Crowley somehow becomes the last survivor of Hell - which is unlikely - he will allow his own destruction rather than harm his child. And Aziraphale… Aziraphale won’t hurt him, Crowley’s sure, unless he has no other choice. But if Crowley is there to be hurt and Aziraphale fails to do so, he risks damnation or destruction himself. And if Aziraphale  _ does  _ hurt him… Crowley’s not sure either of them would survive that, if it came to it.

He has known for a long time that this is how the war would go, if it came. Watching Aziraphale take a bullet, even a paint one, has only made that reality more stark.

_ If we can’t stop this, Aziraphale will have to make an impossible choice. To turn against Heaven, or to destroy Jorael’s other parent and risk having to explain it to them later. _

The young woman has long since been dropped off when Aziraphale makes a sudden, jerky movement that doesn’t look entirely voluntary.

"Crowley, pull over."

And he does; of course he does, because Aziraphale has asked him to and he will always,  _ always  _ want to give his angel anything and everything he wants. Perhaps the angel has some sort of plan. But no; before Crowley knows what’s happening, Aziraphale’s lips are on his, and he’s trying desperately to get closer. He tugs the angel’s bow tie loose and is surprised when the passenger seat reclines as he climbs into Aziraphale’s lap; he wonders, briefly, if it’s down to an infernal miracle or a celestial one, before he realises he doesn’t care about anything but pressing Aziraphale down against the seat and snogging him senseless.

"Never get shot in front of me again," Crowley gasps as they break apart, and he doesn’t know why he’s saying it, why he’s wasting time talking at all. "It's rude."

"I want you to survive," Aziraphale whispers in return, hauling him even closer. "Please, Crowley-"

"If I could, angel, I'd do it for you. But it doesn't look good for me. We've lost the Antichrist. I'm a dead demon walking." It sounds harsh, even to his own ears, but it’s true. He has to accept that. Aziraphale, it seems, can’t.

"Don't. Don't say that-"

"Can I have a last request?" And Aziraphale’s expression softens into such tenderness that Crowley can almost believe he’s loved. Beloved by an angel, of all things.

"Anything, my dear."

"I want you to remember me. Just… remember me, not the Serpent of Eden or the architect of the M25 but  _ me. _ Crowley."

"Oh, Crowley. How could I ever forget?"

"And maybe," Crowley blurts, voice cracking on the words, "one day you can tell our child about me. Not that I was their parent, perhaps. Maybe not even that I was a demon. But that I was your friend."

"I will. I  _ will." _

Crowley kisses him again, gentler now, no longer in any hurry to debauch the angel in his car on the side of the road. The moment is gone; the mood has changed. Instead he undoes two buttons of Aziraphale’s shirt and sets about leaving marks on the newly-exposed flesh; kissing and biting and sucking until he might as well be writing  _ Crowley was here.  _ He feels almost guilty about it, but Aziraphale doesn’t seem to mind, and Crowley wants to be remembered. He wants Aziraphale to remember him, even when he’s gone. These bruises might well outlive Crowley.

At last, Aziraphale guides him back up to kiss him one final time. It feels like a goodbye. And then he sits up, the back of his seat settling back into its usual position as he speaks.

“Drive, Crowley. We have a world to save.”

Crowley drives.


	36. London, 2019 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More angst! But we're nearly there now, so please hang in there. Enjoy!
> 
> As with Blood and Straw, any omissions should be taken to mean that events unfold as in the show.

Aziraphale rejects him at the bandstand, and it’s as if Crowley’s world has already ended. Aziraphale is his last link to his child, his last hope of seeing them again, but the thought barely crosses his mind as he realises that all his tightly-restrained hopes, all his barely-held dreams, have been built on nothing more than illusion. _I don’t even like you._ He argues, of course, because he’s Crowley, and when Aziraphale says things Crowley pushes back - but his heart’s not in it. He has dared to hope, over the last few years, that Aziraphale might truly care for him. He’s given that impression, hasn’t he? It can’t all have been in Crowley’s head? But _we’re not friends._

For nearly two thousand years, there has been a part of Crowley missing, forever out of reach. Living without his child, without Jorael, has been like living without a lung - or so Crowley imagines - each breath painful and difficult, just trying to survive at half capacity. Losing Aziraphale now feels like losing the other lung; he doesn't know how to carry on. There's no air in him, now, no energy. And Aziraphale is looking down on him, _a demon, fallen, I don't even like you_ and all the snake in Crowley knows how to do is hiss and snarl and run away.

He doesn’t know what to do with himself, after that, so he throws himself into an uncomfortable, creaky fold-down seat - one of his ideas - with a bucket of overpriced popcorn - another of his - and stares blankly through the pastel-coloured characters on the screen. He’s not watching, not really, just staring into the middle distance in the only place that doesn’t seem strange. His attention is caught, however, when one of the frolicking bunnies abruptly removes its head.

“What the heaven is going on, Crowley?” The bunny that is Hastur demands. “What have you done?”

Crowley’s blood runs cold - _I have fraternised with an angel, I have born his child, they know somehow -_ and he struggles to maintain a facade of disinterest, the only defence he’s ever had against Hell.

“Hastur. Hey. Not following you.”

“The boy…” Is Jorael a boy? Crowley doesn’t know. He’s never known. Is he about to find out now, just before Hell destroys him forever? “The boy called Warlock. We took him to the fields of Megiddo.”

Crowley barely hears the rest of Hastur’s words, something about a dog and a war, nothing he couldn’t figure out if he wanted to. _Warlock._ For a moment, it’s nothing but a blessed relief that they haven’t discovered Jorael, just Crowley’s usual incompetence - and then cold fear washes over him again. It hadn’t occurred to him that Hell would still be moving in on Warlock, that they might be displeased with _him,_ too. If Hastur has harmed him- “He said that I… that I smelled of poo.” He says it so dejectedly, so indignantly, that Crowley’s sure he hasn’t harmed Warlock. He’d be a lot more smug about it if he had. It’s Crowley’s turn to be smug now; he raised the boy well.

“Well, you can see his point,” he says, in lieu of punching the air, and that’s when the Hastur-bunny loses it.

“You’re dead meat, Crowley. You’re bloody history.” He decapitates an animated rabbit, which is probably supposed to be intimidating rather than just mildly disturbing, but that doesn’t matter because Crowley is already afraid. “You stay where you are. We’re coming to collect you.”

Crowley barely waits for Hastur to hop offscreen before he’s out of the cinema and running for his car. He has to get out of here, and he needs to make a stop first.

Minutes later, he screeches to a halt outside the bookshop and leaps from the car. _We are an angel and a demon,_ Aziraphale said at the bandstand, _I don’t even like you._ But he has to try.

 _Are we still friends?_ Aziraphale asked him once, and Crowley had answered, _We are an angel and a demon; of course we are._ They _are_ friends, they have to be. They can be.

“I'm sorry," he announces. "Apologise. Whatever I said, I didn't mean it. Work with me, I'm apologising here. Yes. Good. Get in the car."

"What? No!" And there it is, another rejection - but perhaps Aziraphale doesn’t realise how serious the situation has become.

"Forces of Hell. They've figured out that it was my fault. We can go away, together. Alpha Centauri. Spare planets up there. Nobody will notice us." It’s a long shot, really, with the forces of Hell set on hunting him down - but maybe it’s just Hastur. Maybe they can outrun him.

"Crowley, you're being ridiculous. I'm quite sure that if I can just reach the right people, I can get this all sorted out."

"There aren't any right people. There's just God. Moving in mysterious ways and not talking to any of us." This is not the way to win Aziraphale over, it never has been. He can’t help it; it’s like everything is spiraling out of control, even his own words. And, sure enough, Aziraphale draws himself up to stand a little straighter, offended.

"Well, yes. That's why I'm going to have a word with the Almighty, and then the Almighty will fix it."

"That won't happen." Crowley can’t understand it. "You're so clever. How can somebody as clever as you be so stupid?" How can you still have faith in such a cruel God?

"I forgive you." That’s the worst of it; Aziraphale thinks he needs forgiving, thinks he _can_ be forgiven. All he needs to be, all he _can_ be, is gone.

"I'm going home, angel. I'm getting my stuff. And I'm leaving." 

He's storming back to the Bentley's driver-side door as he speaks, and that’s when Aziraphale twists the knife.

"And what about _them?_ Are you going to leave them behind too?" 

He’s thought about it, of course he has. "We'll pick them up on the way, just come with me."

"How? Heaven's on a war footing, and we don't even know who they are-"

"Oh, _right._ Of course we don't." He never intended to bring that up again, never meant to turn it against Aziraphale, but then he never thought Aziraphale would believe him capable of abandoning his child at the end of the world, either. Aziraphale flinches as though he’s been punched.

"Don't blame _me_ for-"

"You know what, they never liked me anyway. They're better off with you. You protect them. I'll leave you to it." It’s safer, after all, safer for both of them. Two angels protecting one another, without a demon to taint them by association, to drag them down.

"I'll-"

"I've got to protect myself, now. And when I'm off in the stars, I, I won't even think about you!"

It’s a lie, a horrible lie, and Crowley’s eyes burn with tears as he speeds off around the corner. The water reminds him of another argument, another time - and he knows he isn’t leaving at all. He can’t leave Aziraphale, he can’t leave the Earth. He can’t give up on his last chance to see Jorael, even if it is across the battlefield.

He has to get rid of Hastur, then. And he has a plan.


	37. London, 2019 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Welcome to the End Times. Well, the End of the End Times, actually. I know a lot of you will be looking forward to next chapter and I'll try to get it out as soon as it's right. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this one!

Crowley does his best to hold himself together, to hold what’s left of his family together, to hold the  _ world _ together. He can’t do much, really, in the end - only stand by as the Antichrist changes the course of destiny, only cry out in pain as Satan approaches, only stop time long enough to encourage Adam to be strong. He can only watch as an eleven-year-old boy denies his origins and defies the Great Plan itself, and then all at once he’s on a bench at a bus stop, watching as Aziraphale signs to acknowledge collection of the Horsemen’s symbols.

Aziraphale hands over his sword, too, once again. Crowley will never stop being amazed that he would do that - his Heavenly weapon, his one defence against all that Heaven and Hell might throw at him, and he’s giving it away. Then Aziraphale reveals that there’s a final prophecy - that Heaven and Hell will, indeed, be coming for them very soon - and it’s too much. Against all logic, Crowley finds himself surrendering to the exhaustion that’s dragging him down, too tired and too overwhelmed to keep fighting. He can’t keep fighting.

Aziraphale takes his hand as they sit side by side on the bus, and Crowley lets himself drop onto the angel’s shoulder.  _ At least, if this is the end, let me have this, _ he thinks, and perhaps some higher power hears him, because Aziraphale only squeezes his hand and lets it be.

Everything is gone, now. The bookshop. The Bentley. Any hope of survival, let alone seeing Jorael again. As long as they’re not caught up in it all, though, at least that little piece of Crowley - of Aziraphale, of  _ the pair of them _ \- at least that will survive.

He wishes that they could have had more time. That he and Aziraphale could have done all those wonderful things they’d dreamed they would, if they were ever free. They’re free now, but at what cost?

Dragging himself up from the comfortable seat is difficult, more difficult than it has any right to be, and only the fact that Aziraphale is still holding his hand keeps him moving. His angel wraps an arm around him, supporting him as they make their way up the stairs, and at last they reach Crowley’s door.

“You’ll want to sleep, of course,” Aziraphale mumbles as they enter the flat, “I’ll just-”

But Crowley has thrown caution to the wind, tossed his sunglasses aside and kissed him, kissed him the way he has always longed to. Aziraphale makes a tiny sound of surprise, but he’s already kissing him back before Crowley can second-guess himself. Crowley, needy creature that he is, wants more, always more, and his hands slip up under Aziraphale’s waistcoat before he even knows what he’s doing - and then another wave of exhaustion crashes over him, and he has to break the kiss, resting his face against Aziraphale’s neck instead.

“Angel.” He can hear the frustration in his own voice. “Want you… so tired.”

“You’ve done a lot today, my dear. I’d be worried if you weren’t tired.”

“Sleeping’s a waste of time,” Crowley protests.  _ I wanted more time with you.  _ But Aziraphale just chuckles fondly.

“Can I have that in writing?”

“Time we don’t have, angel.”

“Well, the sooner you sleep, the more time we might have when you wake up.” Aziraphale has never been to Crowley’s flat before, but he’s leading - half-carrying - Crowley towards the bedroom all the same.

Crowley is barely aware of Aziraphale stripping his blazer, tie, waistcoat and shirt from him. He can feel the angel’s eyes on him, though, and then just when things might be about to get interesting - just when Aziraphale might finally admit that he wants Crowley too, at least in a carnal sense - his temptation-tight jeans throw a spanner in the works.

“How do you get these off? How do you even get into these, Crowley?” Aziraphale is pouting fussily, one of Crowley’s favourite of his expressions. They’re all his favourites, of course, but he has a special fondness for his angel at his fussiest. “Are they painted on?”

“Easier from the inside, angel. Besides, ‘m a snake.” He stifles a yawn. “If you were me, you could do it, easy.” He wriggles his hips to prove his point, and is asleep before his trousers hit the floor.

When he wakes, Aziraphale is watching him intently. For a moment, he can’t remember why he’s there, but then it all comes rushing back. Aziraphale, however, looks entirely too excited for somebody who’s about to be painfully destroyed.

“Crowley, look.” The angel’s hand shifts slowly into an exact copy of Crowley’s own; Crowley stares at it for a moment before realising a response is expected.

“...Well done?”

“Oh, right, sorry, I should explain.”

He shows Crowley the prophecy again and explains that he thinks he’ll be facing Hellfire. Crowley struggles to follow his train of thought.

“What does my hand have to do with that?”

“Agnes said  _ choose your faces wisely. _ A hand was more convenient to practice on while you were sleeping, but… we’re opposing entities. What harms a demon rolls right off an angel, and vice versa. So-”

“So we might just survive this, if we take each other’s places.” Crowley feels a flare of hope deep inside himself, a strange sensation after an eternity of hopelessness. He tosses the blanket aside and offers himself up to his angel. “Study away, angel. My body is yours.”

“Keep talking like that,” Aziraphale grouses, “and I’ll forget about our imminent deaths altogether.”

Crowley doesn’t know if he can pass as an angel under the scrutiny of Heaven or Hell, but he knows this is their best chance. They  _ have  _ a chance. And that’s something. That’s a lot. He laughs, delighted, at the way Aziraphale’s eyes linger over his body, like a lover’s caress. If there was time- but perhaps, when this is done, there  _ will  _ be time.

A few hours later, a being of original angelic stock returns to the bookshop and is surprised and delighted to find it unburnt; several hours after that, two beings of original angelic stock meet in a park and are ambushed.

Crowley fights until he sees his own body crumple, and then he’s on his own.


	38. Heaven, 2019 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I'm thinking either I won't be updating until after Christmas, because the next scene is going to be brutal, or I'll put it up tomorrow as an unfestive Christmas Eve update *if* I can get the chapter after that ready to post on Christmas Day itself. It will probably be the former, but I can try for the latter!
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this one.

When Crowley comes round in Heaven, in Aziraphale’s body, tied to a chair, it takes him a moment to make sense of the situation. Then, all at once, it’s as if his mind is racing off in a million directions at once.

He’s never imagined, not since that first terrible Fall all those millennia ago, that he might get back into Heaven, even briefly. Even last night, it didn’t occur to him that Aziraphale’s punishment would probably be carried out in  _ Heaven. _ And now he’s here. It doesn’t look the same, of course, nothing but empty, sterile corridors stretching off into the distance behind the archangels. He doesn’t dare look around, but it’s probably the same in all directions.

If he looks round, though, if he turns to look over his shoulder, will he see the massed ranks of the Heavenly Host formed up behind him to witness Aziraphale’s disgrace? His destruction? If he looks round, will he see his child, at long last? He doesn’t know if he wants that. Crowley can barely stand the thought of his child rejecting  _ him, _ but if they reject  _ Aziraphale _ because Crowley is coiled inside his corporation… Crowley can’t deal with it.

Gabriel tells him to get in the Hellfire, and there’s not a gasp from behind him, not a rustling of wings or a murmur of disapproval. The Host aren’t there. Crowley wonders, briefly, if he can ask for Jorael - a last request, Heaven have to grant Aziraphale that, surely - and immediately shuts the idea down. He cannot speak the name they’ve guarded so closely for so many years; he cannot remind Heaven that there is one more way to hurt their traitor.

So he steps into the fire with nothing more than an icily polite farewell, and then he spits fire at the Archangel Fucking Gabriel because he can and the bastard deserves it. They let him go, stunned, and he leaves with a grim sort of satisfaction in a job well done.

It’s not until he’s halfway back down to Earth that he realises he’s never going to see his child again.

He tastes ash in his mouth where just moments before there had been victory, and the world might as well have ended. Without Jorael, without any hope of seeing them again, it might as well have crumbled to dust. But by the time he reaches the ground he has swallowed down all that grief and resigned himself to it. At least he’s alive. Aziraphale is - he fervently hopes - alive. And Jorael is alive, too, and safe, and in no danger of being thrown into a war that can't be won.

They meet on a park bench, and Crowley laughs with his angel as if they’ve won. At least they have each other.

“Let me tempt you to a spot of lunch?”

“Temptation accomplished.”


	39. London, 2019 AD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The angsty bit before the... joyful angsty bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's Christmas Eve and everyone's probably in the mood for fluff, but I have this angsty chapter so I'm going to post it and you can read it when you like. The next chapter should be up tomorrow... Enjoy!

"To the world."

"To the  _ world _ ."

They have all the time they could possibly want to enjoy the Ritz, and Crowley lets it go on as long as he can before admitting to breathing Hellfire at the archangels. Aziraphale looks positively  _ giddy  _ about it, so Crowley has to take it upon himself to explain what that means. It’s best his angel understands.

"I wanted to make sure they were too scared to bother you. But I don't think you're going to be able to go up there any more."

"I hardly ever did anyway," Aziraphale begins, but Crowley shakes his head.

"I mean… you can't go up there looking for our child any more."

He can see the moment that knowledge pierces Aziraphale’s brain and settles there.

"That's it, then. It's over. We've lost them." But even as he speaks, he reaches out to touch Crowley’s hand, to reassure him. He hesitates for a moment, as if he’s trying to hold back a question - Heaven knows he’s had plenty of practice in that department - before Crowley gets to watch the flicker of wonder in his eyes as he realises he doesn’t have to any more. Not with Crowley. "No sign of them at all?"

"Nothing. And I couldn't exactly ask the archangels. I didn't want to remind them that they could use your child to get at you."

"No. No, I only hope they don't think of it themselves."

"I'll drink to that." Crowley raises his glass, and Aziraphale follows suit.

"To our child, then."

"To Jorael."

He’s not sure why he says it; maybe just to feel the shape of his child’s name on his tongue, just once, to know what it tastes like. The moment the words escapes, though, he realises he’s made a terrible mistake. Aziraphale flinches as if he’s just been electrocuted, and then his glass smashes on the floor.

Crowley has to act fast - he lurches forwards and snaps his fingers, slowing time down, setting their table back to rights because he can’t fix Aziraphale’s horrified expression anywhere near as easily. The waiter is right there, offering help of some sort, and he’s not  _ leaving  _ fast enough, so Crowley stops time altogether and throws himself to his knees at his angel’s feet, pleading silently to anyone who might care to listen;  _ please let him be OK, please don’t let me have ruined this now. _

“Angel? Angel, I’m sorry. Sorry, I thought it might be safe now, just once-” But of course it isn’t, how could it be, and now he’s put them all in danger - all these years, Aziraphale has been so careful not to say it out loud, and so has Crowley, and now he’s taken a stupid unnecessary risk because he wanted to know how it sounded-

“Jorael,” Aziraphale blurts, and Crowley has the slightly hysterical notion that he ought to shush him. He doesn’t, of course, because Aziraphale is still stumbling on, as if every word is a struggle, as if words aren’t bound into the essence of the angel’s being. “Our child.”

"Sorry," Crowley repeats frantically, "didn't mean to scare you. I'm sure no-one heard-"

"You knew." It’s barely audible, but Crowley can feel the frost on Aziraphale’s breath from here. He has never known his angel to be so cold, so quiet. And then, all at once, he’s not quiet at all. "You  _ knew?! _ You knew our child's name and you didn't tell me?"

Crowley’s lost; shouldn’t he have admitted he knew? But he’d  _ told  _ Aziraphale-

"I- I did tell you, before you left the Dowlings', I said- I knew you couldn't tell me, I've known for 150 years-"

"I didn't know you meant _ our child's name _ !"

"What else-"   
"I thought you meant you knew I loved you! I didn't think you meant you knew something _ I didn't!" _

"You loved me?" But he doesn’t have time to experience a fraction of the euphoria this discovery deserves, because all of a sudden what Aziraphale’s just said hits him. It hits him like lightning, like an earthquake, like a flood. "You didn't know."

It’s too awful to contemplate; of course Aziraphale has known, all this time, didn’t he tell Crowley, once? Didn’t he correct his pronunciation, as if it was just any other word, centuries ago? It can’t have been a coincidence; surely even She isn’t so cruel. But She is, he knows She is, and Aziraphale has gone very pale and he won’t look at Crowley.

"How could I-? How did you-?" He sounds as though he’s just run a great distance, as if his lungs aren’t drawing in enough air, and why shouldn’t he? It turns out Crowley has been keeping something from him, something so precious- "I'm going home. I need- I just- give me an hour. Give me an hour, and come to the shop. I need-" 

Crowley remembers how furious  _ he  _ was, when he thought Aziraphale had kept this very same secret from him. Aziraphale must be so angry, so very angry, and he will never forgive Crowley, will he? Crowley doesn’t deserve to be forgiven. So it’s not with any hope in his heart that he tries to explain himself. To reassure Aziraphale that he has not misjudged the demon’s character so severely. It’s Crowley’s mistake. It’s always Crowley’s mistake, no matter how hard he tries.

"Angel, I'm sorry-"

"Just- one hour." And Aziraphale walks out.

Crowley sits there for several stunned seconds before time snaps into place - he’s forgotten about it, and he’s still so tired, and it seems subconscious miracles are beyond him right now - and then he waves away the staff, pays the bill without really seeing it, tips the waiter on autopilot and staggers out into the street. He wants the Bentley; he wants to find his car parked outside the restaurant so he can climb in and sob into the comforting familiarity of its seats, but he can’t. It’s not there. He didn’t drive here, Aziraphale didn’t drive here, and for all he knows the Bentley doesn’t even smell the same now. For all he knows, it still smells of burning petroleum. It burned, everything Crowley loves burned, and now he’s destroyed the only thing he couldn’t bear to have taken from him.

To undo this wrong, to make things right with Aziraphale, he would set fire to the Bentley himself. Shred all his plants. He would march down to Hell and throw himself in that accursed bath of Holy Water if it would make his angel happy, but nothing can do that now because Crowley has messed it all up. He has messed it all up so badly.

He sits, instead, on the first bench he finds, and he sobs brokenly into his hands, and London moves on around him, indifferent to his misery. He has lost his child, and now he has lost Aziraphale, and the world is saved for everyone but them. He cries until he can’t bear the pain in his chest any more, and then he walks and walks until the hour is up, and then he realises he has to face the music. Aziraphale has asked him to come back in an hour so that he can tell him, in full and frank terms, how despicable he is and to never darken his doorway again. And Crowley, poor lovelorn fool that he is, will go, because the least he owes Aziraphale is another apology and a chance to vent some of his anger.

When he opens the door to the bookshop, he finds Aziraphale standing between the bookshelves, turned resolutely away from the door, and he knows that the angel can’t even bear to look at him. That’s no surprise. Crowley wouldn’t want to look at himself right now, either. He has hurt someone he never, ever wanted to hurt, and now he must pay for it.

“Angel.” He clears his throat; he can barely speak, an awful rasping sound making its way into what he had hoped would be smooth, measured tones. “Angel,” he tries again, “I’m sorry. I swear, I thought you-”

"What does the J stand for, Crowley?" Aziraphale cuts him off, and Crowley stumbles to a stop, a few feet away from Aziraphale’s turned back. He’s going to make him say it, then. He’s going to make him lay bare the extent of his own evil.

"You know what it stands for,” he whispers, and hangs his head. He has never been so ashamed, not before man or God. He is a miserable excuse for a wretched creature, and he has hurt his angel over and over again. 

"They were here, you know." Crowley doesn’t know; he glances around the shop, briefly, as if fate would be that kind. "With Gabriel. 1904. They stood here, and I didn't know them, and if-" He stops, but Crowley doesn’t need to be spared the truth. He doesn’t deserve mercy.

"If I'd told you."  _ You’d have known them. You’d have seen them for who they were.  _ And the worst of it is that Crowley knows if Aziraphale had seen them, if he had knowingly seen their child, he would have told Crowley all about it. He would have told him everything, because he is fundamentally  _ good  _ in all the ways Crowley isn’t.

"How did you find out, anyway?" Aziraphale’s voice is cold and steady and inescapable. Crowley wants to run away, but he can’t. He owes his angel more than this.

"Hastur. He heard from Ligur that there was an angel younger than the others. I suppose that came from your side, making sure it wasn't my side's doing."

"He told them it wasn't?"

"He told them Hell knew nothing about it, because they didn't. It… I never told them anything. I never even said the name, once I'd heard it, in case they- I thought that was what you were doing too."

"Why?" Crowley doesn’t understand; he stares, uncomprehending, at Aziraphale’s back until he rephrases the question. "What made you so sure I knew?"

"I recognised the name.” His breath escapes him in a sigh and he has to fight to drag air back into his lungs. “I was sure I'd heard you say it, long ago. Thought you'd tried to tell me without telling me, and I'd missed it. But… you were telling me something else, weren't you." He can feel his whole body curling in on itself; his usual casual poise has no place here, now.

"I think the only time we ever spoke about Jorael was when they chased you from Paris. If you hadn't come to me- if you'd been running from any other angel-"

"I should have told you," Crowley mumbles, and then he tries to make it easier for Aziraphale. "I'm sorry. I know… I know this is the end for us. This - I - can't be forgiven."

Aziraphale tenses, and Crowley sees the silent confirmation for what it is. He can’t be forgiven; there will be no more dinners, no more temptations, no more snatched moments or smiles or  _ love _ . Aziraphale said  _ love _ , and Crowley has already ruined it. He turns and makes for the door, floorboards creaking beneath his foot in a way they would never  _ dream  _ of doing if Aziraphale was the one walking on them, and it’s as if the newly-restored bookshop is rejecting him too.

"Stop," Aziraphale orders, and Crowley freezes. "Come here."

Of course; Aziraphale is an angel. The very best of Her angels, of course, kind and loving and fair, but an angel nonetheless. He has the authority to mete out Her justice, and no doubt now he’s free he can mete out his own, too. He will want retribution for what Crowley has taken from him - first his carefree existence, unshackled by the ties of parenthood, and now also the knowledge of his own child’s name - and he has every right to punish Crowley however he sees fit. He has every right to make Crowley feel all the pain of an angel’s fury before he sends him out into the dark world alone.

Crowley slowly makes his way to Aziraphale’s side, head bowed, and Aziraphale finally looks up from the bookshelf he’s been staring at the whole time. He catches Crowley’s hand in his own, and Crowley barely has time to brace himself for the inevitable snapping of bones before he feels soft lips brush across his knuckles instead.

"I forgive you. Can you forgive me? For being tricked? For letting them go in the first place?" This is wrong, it’s all wrong,  _ Crowley  _ is the one who did bad things, and now Aziraphale is asking  _ his  _ forgiveness? He has always had it, always.

"Ages ago.” His voice cracks on the words. "I forgave you so long ago."

"Then we're all right. We're tickety-boo.” Aziraphale smiles a watery smile, and Crowley pulls a face more for form’s sake than anything. It cannot be this easy. Surely he can’t truly be forgiven. And then Aziraphale gives him a gift, one he doesn’t understand at first. "Here." He places Crowley's hand gently on a shelf that looks like any other, presses in close and sets his own hand beside it. "Our child touched this shelf, here."

Crowley is surprised to find that he hasn’t run out of tears, after all, because Aziraphale doesn’t have to share this little piece of their child with him and yet he  _ is,  _ he is giving him all he can of Jorael even though Crowley didn’t do the same for him. This is as close as they are ever likely to get to their child, and as the two of them stand there together it feels like the greatest gift he could ever ask for. He slips his spare arm around Aziraphale, half expecting to be rejected, and Aziraphale only sighs contentedly and draws him closer.

They stand there for a long time, and then Aziraphale tugs at his hand and guides him towards the little staircase leading up to the bookshop’s scarcely-used bedroom. Aziraphale is rarely tired; for a moment, Crowley thinks it must be a hint. Now that they’ve established that they’re still friends, he’s clearly outstayed his welcome. But then Aziraphale speaks.

"There's something  _ I _ should have told  _ you," _ he admits softly, and it doesn’t feel like an accusation. "I love you."   
"And you know- you must know- I love you too, angel."

Aziraphale nods, and they go to bed. They go to bed together.


	40. London, 2020 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have a Christmas miracle. It's still a little angsty but it's also The Big Chapter. Enjoy, and have a lovely Friday/Christmas!

Six months after the world fails to end, Crowley is just beginning to become accustomed to the heady sensation of being with Aziraphale - to them being really, truly,  _ openly  _ together. They spend their days in the bookshop, or lazing around in Crowley’s flat, and Aziraphale has utterly spoiled his houseplants by coddling them, but Crowley doesn’t care.

He catches Aziraphale, sometimes, gazing wistfully at the bookshop door, as if he’s hoping somebody will walk in, and Crowley understands. Aziraphale has found him, on more than one occasion, resting a hand on his own flat stomach, and they both know who he’s thinking about.

Sometimes, Crowley admits that he feels as though a better mother would have found a way to keep their child, and when he starts blaming himself, Aziraphale is there to catch him.

“I let them go, too. Do you blame me?”

“Of course not, angel.”

“Well, then. Hypocrisy was never one of your particular sins, don’t start now.” And Aziraphale smiles, and his smile chases all the darkness from Crowley’s world.

Crowley wakes in Aziraphale’s arms, most days, his own limbs tangled around the angel in return, and they don’t have to pretend one of them is constricting the other. They are holding each other because they’re in love, and knowing that - being able to  _ say  _ it - feels like a rare and precious gift. Crowley does feel sad for what he’s lost, of course he does, but most days he can lose himself in the happiness of all that he’s gained.

The day begins like any other; they wake, and Crowley pretends to still be sleeping so that Aziraphale will kiss him awake, and then they go to the kitchen to make breakfast. But then, as Crowley raises a butter knife, ready to prepare the toast as soon as it pops out of the toaster, there’s a sudden sensation of  _ holy  _ nearby. An angel. It can’t mean anything good; Crowley turns on one ring of the gas hob and prepares to turn it to Hellfire if they’re threatened. He doesn’t relish the idea of unleashing such a flame in the bookshop - or so close to  _ his _ angel - but he’ll do it if he has to. He’ll do anything it takes to keep Aziraphale safe.

“Stand by,” he mutters, as if Aziraphale hasn’t already noticed the danger. As if he hasn’t shifted his weight into a battle-ready stance as if it’s the most natural thing in the word.

Whoever it is knocks on the door - Aziraphale doesn’t answer, and Crowley suspects that he, too, is hoping that they’ll just give up and go away - before moving into the bookshop, calling out something Crowley can’t quite hear.

“Not Gabriel, at least,” Aziraphale whispers, “his voice carries. I think Uriel’s the only quiet archangel.”

“Still dangerous, even if they’re alone” Crowley warns, because even if Aziraphale doesn’t remember that Uriel hurt him during the Apocalypse That Wasn’t,  _ Crowley _ won’t soon forget being told about it. He plucks his sunglasses from the ether and jams them onto his nose.

They listen anxiously to the creak of floorboards as the angel - whoever they are - makes their way through the shop and up the stairs. They take their time, as if to draw out the tension for those waiting above.

“Principality Aziraphale?” a voice calls, and it doesn’t sound like the archangel Crowley remembers. It doesn’t sound like  _ any  _ archangel Crowley remembers.

“Not Uriel,” Aziraphale whispers.

“I come in peace,” the voice calls, and it  _ does  _ sound familiar. Like a voice he heard once, long ago.  _ Leave the humans alone,  _ he imagines it saying, and the answer hits him all at once.

“Jorael,” Aziraphale all but yelps - and Crowley panics. He feels time stop around him and he’s glad, glad he can have a moment longer to gather his thoughts before meeting their child-  _ their child is here. _

“What do we do?” He snaps the hob off; there’s no question of using it against their child. There’s no guarantee, though, that Jorael’s not here to harm them. He wants to rush out there and take them into his arms; he wants to throw himself out of the window and run until they’re far from his reach. He doesn’t want to disappoint them. But he’s run away from them too many times already.

Aziraphale’s voice snaps him out of it.

“Act neutral. Like they’re just another angel, we don’t know if they know- just. We don’t want to scare them. Just find out what they want, and stay calm.” Aziraphale sounds so sure of himself, but Crowley can see the tension in his body.

“Any other angel. Got it.” Crowley whispers, and then realises he’s an idiot. “Why are we whispering? Time’s stopped.”

“Start it back up, please,” Aziraphale murmurs, “the suspense is killing me.”

Crowley takes a very deep breath and obeys.

A moment later, the door opens just enough for Jorael to reach through with a piece of fabric Crowley recognises at once. How do they have it? Have they kept it all these years? Do they know what it is, what it means?

“Er… flag of truce?” Jorael’s voice carries through the gap in the door, so very different from the thin infant wail Crowley has long associated with them, and it’s just as well Aziraphale is capable of speech, because Crowley is busy absorbing every detail as it reaches him.

“Accepted,” Aziraphale begins, his voice stilted and his shoulders taut. “You may enter as long as you attempt no harm. Although it’s usually a  _ white  _ flag-” And Crowley loves his angel’s pedantry, of course he does, but this is no time for it. Doesn’t Aziraphale see what Jorael has brought them?

“That one’s- fine,” he catches himself at the last moment, about to say  _ perfect _ because it is - and the door swings open for their child to step through.

Jorael is no longer the baby Crowley once set down to sleep in a donkey’s manger; they are fully grown and dressed in the typical pastel businesswear of Heaven. Crowley barely sees it, too busy drinking in the details: the hair that brushes their collar, a perfect bronze blend of his own red waves and Aziraphale’s paler curls; eyes that shine with Aziraphale’s brightness and carry just the barest hint of gold within their depths. Jorael is an angel - the resemblance to Aziraphale is profound and undeniable - and for a moment Crowley can imagine his child scattering stars across the heavens, a beautiful force of creation. But Jorael wasn’t there for the creation of the stars; Jorael is  _ their  _ creation, his and Aziraphale’s, and their beauty outshines everything else Crowley has ever made. They are perfect, and that is why Crowley can never reach them.

“Be not afraid,” Jorael ventures timidly, and Crowley can’t help but choke on a giggle. Of  _ course  _ his child is an angel, textbook greeting and all. They were raised in Heaven,  _ by  _ Heaven. It’s a wonder they haven’t tried to smite him again yet, really. It’s not funny, but if he doesn’t barely suppress laughter, he’ll be holding back tears instead. “I, er. I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Not at all,” Aziraphale says, sounding as though he might be holding back tears himself. “Can we help you?”

“I, er, well. I hope so. I know you want nothing to do with angels, but… you were kind to me once, Principality Aziraphale.” And then, to his surprise, Jorael turns to Crowley. “And I was unkind to you.”

“Were you?” Crowley blurts, too startled to think. He hadn’t expected to be addressed, much less in what sounds like an apologetic tone. “Oh, d’you mean Paris? Not unking. Just doing your job.” There, that sounds casual, doesn’t it? “Aziraphale used to chase me out of places all the time.”

“You forgave me,” Aziraphale confirms softly, and Crowley wonders if he’s trying to suggest that Crowley is  _ good _ . That he’s  _ nice. _ Their child is unlikely to believe that, and Crowley’s not sure he wants them to. He doesn’t want to disappoint them in the short minutes they’re likely to stay. They probably don’t care what Crowley does, of course. They’re just here because they want something from Aziraphale. Help. Are they in trouble?

He realises that he’s been staring, and Jorael has been looking between the two of them in bewilderment. Then they seem to gather their wits.

“I. Well. I’m sorry, anyway.” They’re still talking to Crowley. They’re  _ apologising  _ to  _ Crowley _ , as if Crowley deserves it, as though  _ they’re  _ the one who owes  _ Crowley  _ an apology. “I had no right. I was very young.” Their eyes narrow, gaze flicking across to Aziraphale as if they expect to catch him in some sort of a lie. It takes everything he has in him to maintain a straight face, not to fall at his child’s feet and beg their forgiveness. But they aren’t finished. “And I’m sorry, Principality Aziraphale, for listening when I shouldn’t have, all those years ago. But you- you- I don’t know how to say this.”

Jorael takes a deep breath, and Crowley matches it. Is this it, do they know they’re Aziraphale’s child? Have they come to seek him out? They’re focused on Aziraphale, every muscle in their corporation tense, and Crowley knows he’s not a part of this. He never expected he would be. That’s fine. He stands, still and silent, as Jorael finally comes to their point.

“I’m the child you were asking about. The one born one thousand, nine hundred and eighty-six years ago. And nobody else seems to know anything about it.”

For a second, nobody moves. And then Aziraphale remembers how to form words.

“Well. Er, please, just Aziraphale is fine. And this is Crowley. Perhaps we should all sit down?”

Crowley drops into a chair as soon as is proper, shaking limbs no longer able to support him, and props his head on his hand to watch as Jorael settles onto their own seat, setting the black veil they’ve brought down on the table, folding it neatly and smoothing out the creases, fingers dancing reverently over the fabric. He feels a nudge under the table - Aziraphale’s foot touching his own - but he can’t tear his eyes away from their child. Fortunately, Aziraphale clears his throat to get Jorael’s attention before they can notice the staring.

“I take it you have questions about your birth.”

“I’ve spent a century investigating,” Jorael tells him, eyes bright, and Crowley is irresistibly reminded of Aziraphale in research mode. “I confessed to having overheard - it’s hard, stopping my corporation from hearing things - and asked why you wanted to know about me.”

“And he told you…?” Aziraphale is doing his best to keep his tone even, his voice measured, but Crowley can hear the little thrill of fear and excitement hidden beneath it.

“That I was given to you to pass on to Heaven.” Jorael frowns; it’s Aziraphale’s frown. “But then he said that was only because Earth is where things are born, so- I thought- I wondered- Was I born?” They take a deep breath. “Are you my parent?”

Aziraphale glances at Crowley for a second before answering, and Crowley tries to shrug, as if to say  _ go ahead, this is your moment, I’m happy for you.  _ He’s not quite sure he manages to convey all that, or even that Aziraphale sees the movement, because Aziraphale turns back to Jorael.

“I… I am.” He stands, and Jorael stands too. “Though I’m afraid I haven’t done much parenting.” But Jorael is holding out their arms for a hug, beaming, and Crowley’s heart feels as though it’s being squeezed too tight as he looks on. He’s happy for Aziraphale; he’s glad Jorael has found their parent. It will be good for them, knowing where they come from, having an angel who is  _ theirs.  _ Crowley should probably leave, let them catch up, but he can’t seem to move. He fixes his eyes on the veil on the table instead, giving them their moment. And then Aziraphale is speaking again. “But, ah… you really were  _ given  _ to me. I didn’t give birth to you.”

“Given to you?” Jorael steps out of the embrace, confused. “By the Almighty?”

Aziraphale turns to Crowley, looking lost, and Crowley’s mind goes blank.  _ What am I supposed to say?  _ He glances up at them both, then down again at the folded fabric. He trails a finger over the edge of it, the texture bringing back a flood of memories.

“By the person who did give birth to you,” he answers quietly, still uncertain of whether he should admit to his role in the whole thing. He is a demon. Jorael will not want him. Better that they think they were someone else’s. “The owner of this veil.”

He dares another glance up, safely hidden behind his sunglasses, and realises that Jorael looks ready to pounce on him. He drops his gaze and removes his hand from the veil; of course, they don’t want a demon touching their belongings.

“What do you know about it?” Jorael demands, and they sound - not angry. Curious. So close to answers, and frustrated by the lack of them.

“I know it was your first clothing, your first protection against the draughts of a run-down stable and the scratch of the hay in the manger.” That’s a good start, and the logical end is  _ it’s the only cloth I had to wrap you in, after I brought you into this world.  _ But he can’t quite force the words out; he changes tack. “I’m surprised Heaven let you keep it.”

“They’re not monsters, you know.”

Crowley looks up at the sharp rebuke, and what he sees is an angel. A servant of the Most High, looking down upon a demon, a foul, unworthy thing that has spoken out of turn. He could never be good enough for his angelic child; how could he have forgotten that?

“Mm. No. But demons are, right? That’s why you chased me off that time.” He turns to Aziraphale, hoping the angels can’t see how much it hurts. “Angel, I should go-” But before he can stand, Aziraphale interrupts.

“He never fought you, did he? Never even tried.”

Crowley freezes, halfway out of his seat, and for a moment there’s the heavy sort of silence that only falls when serious thoughts are being had.

“He… didn’t.” Jorael is moving towards the table, very slowly, as if they’re approaching a wild animal. “And… you two…” They drop into their seat, hard, and Crowley winces. “You saved the world together.” Their hands smooth the veil on the table, as if they’re checking it’s still there, and then Jorael turns to Crowley. “This is  _ your  _ veil.”

Crowley can’t move, can’t breathe, certainly can’t answer. Here it comes; anger, rejection, disappointment. His heart is about to be broken; Jorael will not tolerate his presence now any more than they did the day they were born, not now that they know. They suspect, at least; if he doesn’t answer, they won’t know, will they? They can’t, can they?

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, and all Crowley’s plans are for nothing. “We’re your parents, Jorael. At least by birth.”

There are a few horrible silent moments where Crowley feels like he’s falling again. Then, all at once, there are hands near his face, very gently removing his glasses. Of course; Jorael is brave. They want to see the full horror of Crowley’s demonic visage; he can tell his eyes are at their most snakelike and repulsive. Well, let them look. They ought to know what they’re rejecting.

“I’m your child?” Jorael asks, and Crowley can only nod miserably. Then, all at once, Jorael’s arms are around him and he realises he’s being  _ hugged _ . It’s more than he could ever have dared to hope for; he isn’t being rejected after all, not yet. He barely gets his own arms up to embrace his child - to hold his baby for the first time in nearly two thousand years - before he bursts into tears. Jorael jolts in his grip, no doubt alarmed by the terrible sobs coming from the demon.

“I’m sorry- I thought- my Earth studies suggested families did this-”

“You-” It’s barely recognisable as speech, the wail that escapes him, and he can’t seem to stop. “You  _ screamed  _ when I tried to hold you-”

“They’re not the one crying now,” Aziraphale teases gently, and Crowley just sobs harder into his child’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Jorael begins, patting Crowley’s back awkwardly, and that’s the  _ last  _ thing Crowley wants.

“No, it’s not- I don’t- you were a  _ baby. _ ” But the tears won’t stop, and he can’t seem to drag air into his lungs, and Aziraphale’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder.

“Do you think you could ease up a bit, my dear? I’m sure Jorael has questions.”

_ Aziraphale-  _ Aziraphale has just met their child for the first time, too, and he’s behaving with composure and dignity. Crowley flinches backwards, letting Jorael go, but they catch his hand before he can move too far away.

“I’m not going to scream,” they say, as Crowley stares in mute panic at their joined hands. “But I do have questions. For both of you.”

They settle back into their places around the table, and Jorael squeezes their parents’ hands before letting go. Crowley lets out a tiny frightened noise at the loss of contact and immediately hates himself for it, but Aziraphale reaches for him instead. He’s glad; he needs the support. None of this quite feels real, and at least if Aziraphale is holding onto him, he won’t float away somehow. He feels light-headed. For two thousand years he has lived with the knowledge that if his child ever knew him, they would hate him. And now that doesn’t seem to be true. He can’t get his head round it.

“What would you like to know?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley pulls his attention back to the conversation. Jorael has questions, of course they do.

“I screamed when you tried to hold me. W-?”

“When  _ I  _ held you,” Crowley corrects them hastily, “not Aziraphale. When I went  _ near  _ you, actually.” He doesn’t want Jorael to tar Aziraphale with the same brush, when they come to their senses and realise they don't want a demon for a parent. “You’re an angel, I’m a demon-”

“Is that why you didn’t want me?”

For a split second, that doesn’t make any sense, and then understanding rushes in to fill the void where Crowley’s heart has just dropped like a stone.

“Why I-?”

“It’s just- on Earth, parents usually raise their children, we learned about it. Even if it’s just one parent.” Jorael shrugs helplessly. “I know Archangel Gabriel was trying to protect me, not telling me you gave me up-”

“Didn’t want you,” Crowley repeats quietly, thinking about how much closer he should have been to Gabriel when he spat that Hellfire, “didn’t  _ want  _ you, is that what you think?”

“Well, I… I suppose I can’t blame you, if I cried a lot-”

“It nearly  _ destroyed  _ us both to give you up,” Crowley tells them, “but I couldn’t keep you with me, not with Hell.” He’s felt that failure in his heart every day since, and his child thinks he didn’t  _ want  _ them?

“I tried to keep you,” Aziraphale explains, “but Gabriel insisted there was only one proper place for a new angel. I should have argued with him-” No, that won’t do.

“He’s never stopped asking about you,” Crowley interjects, “we’ve never stopped missing you.”

Jorael watches them both suspiciously, looking from one to the other as if they’re waiting for one of them to slip up. Then, abruptly, they stand.

“They’ll be expecting me back. I have to go.”

Crowley’s heart breaks all over again, but he makes no move to stop them. They’ve been found wanting, but stopping Jorael from leaving would hardly help with that. Besides, Crowley’s a big fan of free will. Jorael looks surprised, as if they’d been bracing for an argument or worse.

“Will you be all right?” Aziraphale asks mildly, and Jorael bristles.

“I am an angel of the Lord. I have nothing to fear from Heaven.” Oh, their child definitely takes after Aziraphale - and Aziraphale looks highly frustrated by the same party line he’s spent his existence defending. Crowley would feel smug about him getting a taste of his own medicine, if not for the fact that it is their child who is going back Upstairs, and if it weren’t for the fact that he hates when angels talk down to Aziraphale. When anyone does.

“Of course,” Aziraphale says, in that even tone that means only Crowley knows he’s annoyed. “Still, best not mention that you saw us. No need to upset anyone Upstairs.”

“You’re not going to stop me?” Crowley is already memorising every detail, saving it away for when their child is gone again. It takes him a moment to realise that he ought to say something, and then all he can do is shake his head. Actually, a lot of him is shaking, he realises, as Jorael heads for the door.

At the last minute, they turn.

“Can I visit again, soon?”

“Of course. You’re always welcome.” Crowley can practically hear the  _ dear  _ Aziraphale doesn’t add to the end of that sentence; they are both being so careful not to scare Jorael away, if Crowley hasn’t done that already with his little breakdown earlier. “Any time.”

Their child leaves, and there is only silence. Aziraphale’s shop has never felt  _ oppressively  _ quiet, before, not with the angel puttering about and mumbling to himself, or the books whispering their secrets to one another, or even the flames licking at its beams - but it does now. It is too quiet, and there is too much emotion in the air. And then Aziraphale begins to cry.

“Oh, angel.” He brushes gentle fingers across Aziraphale’s cheeks, wiping away tears. “Angel, it’s OK. They’re OK. They know where we are, now.”

“They thought we didn’t want them-”

“They’ll learn. They’ll come back, and we’ll show them.” If he says it enough, he can believe it, because his angel needs him to believe it. “They were always loved. And they’re fine, they’re all grown up, and they can look after themself…” They’ve missed so much, so many little pieces of Jorael’s life that they will never get to experience. It was all stolen from them.

“Come back to bed with me, Crowley,” Aziraphale suggests, with a squeeze of his hand. “I think finally seeing our child again is as good an excuse to cuddle as any.” And Crowley doesn’t feel quite equal to staying upright, so he goes willingly. He always goes willingly to Aziraphale’s bed.

“They found us,” he whispers, as they cuddle up together beneath the blankets, and he can hardly believe it. He half expects Aziraphale to ask him what on earth he’s talking about, to tell him he’s dreamt the whole thing. But Aziraphale only kisses him, and Crowley realises it was all real.

_ They found us. _


	41. London, 2021 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm, I wonder if I can get this finished by the end of the year? Anyway. Enjoy!

Crowley is exhausted by the time they both crash back against the mattress. They hadn’t exactly planned to spend the whole morning making love, but Aziraphale had woken up with a glint in his eye and Crowley had, of course, been only too happy to indulge him, and then all at once it was gone noon. Crowley feels as though he’s run a marathon - or at least, how he imagines running a marathon must feel - warm and satisfied and a little sore in several key muscles. But he’s happy, so happy to be with Aziraphale, to be able to hold him in the aftermath, and so he doesn’t particularly mind when Aziraphale calls for his attention again.

“Crowley,” the angel begins, and Crowley smiles even as he pretends to be annoyed.

“You’re insatiable,” he grumbles happily, and begins pressing sleepy kisses to Aziraphale’s neck, wondering what his angel is craving. Aziraphale relaxes into his arms for only a moment before shaking his head.

“No- there’s someone from Upstairs nearby. Could be Jorael. We should get dressed.”

“Oh, right-” Crowley snaps his fingers to set the room to rights - there are pillows everywhere, for one thing - and clothe himself as Aziraphale performs a similar miracle beside him. Now that he pays attention, Crowley can sense it too, a feeling of holiness approaching the flat. By the time they’re out of bed and presentable, the intercom is already buzzing to announce a visitor.

Crowley does his best to contain his excitement, heart in his throat as he moves over to the speaker. It might not be Jorael at all. It might be Gabriel, or Michael, or any other angel who might want to make Aziraphale’s life a misery.

“Hello?”

“Is that- is that, er, Crowley?”

“Jorael.” He can’t hide his relief, nor how much he has longed to see them since their last visit. “Yeah, good, come up.”

A minute later, Jorael is standing in the doorway, and Crowley finds himself looking at the flat through his child’s eyes. It’s dark, and bare, and cold - perhaps Jorael will like that. Crowley would rather drive through the flames of the M25 again than admit it, but it’s not actually that different from the Heaven he found when he went up there as Aziraphale. And then, at the heart of all that darkness and emptiness, he sees Aziraphale, bright eyes and bright smile, standing awkwardly beside the sofa and armchair he’d insisted Crowley acquire. It’s the most comfortable part of his whole flat, besides the bed, and the angel is a huge part of that. They all sit down, and then they look at each other in silence.

“I’m glad it was you,” Crowley says, because he is, and he realises he’s been quiet too long. Jorael turns their head to look at him, and at once he’s sure it was the wrong thing to say. “Er, you know. Angel in the area. Definitely better than Gabriel,” he babbles, trying to claw it back. “Or Michael, what a-”

“I understand Archangel Michael was involved in your failed execution,” Jorael cuts across him, voice cold and unyielding as Heaven itself, “and I realise there’s no love lost there. But it might be best that we keep the discussion of my superiors’ flaws to a minimum.”

Crowley suddenly feels a strange sort of empathy for slugs who’ve had salt poured on them; he wants to shrivel up and die in the face of his child’s disapproval. For all these years, they have wondered where they come from, who made them, and now one of their parents has utterly disappointed them. They’d have been better off just thinking they were Aziraphale’s-

"Even if Michael is a wanker," Jorael concludes quietly, eyes fixed on Crowley's, and there’s laughter in their eyes, behind an anxiety Crowley recognises. He can’t help but smile; his child is _teasing,_ and it’s _perfect._

"It's lovely to see you," Aziraphale offers, when Crowley utterly fails to respond, and Jorael seems surprised.

"Even though I left? Even though it's been so long?"

"It's not the longest we've been separated," Aziraphale points out, and Crowley shudders to think of the centuries before they knew Jorael. "I'm just glad you came back."

"Why _did_ you come back?" Teasing aside, Crowley doesn’t dare assume that their child is there just to spend time with them. Crowley doesn’t have that sort of luck, and Heaven may still be out to punish him and Aziraphale.

“I want to know more,” Jorael says, and Crowley does his best not to be won over by an explanation that could have been tailor-made to win his sympathy, “and Heaven’s story keeps changing.”

"Yeah, it does that," Crowley grumbles, but it seems Jorael has reached the limit of their tolerance for criticisms of Heaven. They look just like Aziraphale when they purse their lips like that.

“What did Heaven tell you?” Aziraphale asks, looking vaguely flustered, and Crowley knows he’s seen it too.

"At first, just that I was the youngest. That I was new, that I shouldn't think I was special."

"You _are_ ssspecial," Crowley hisses, furious that his child has been taught to value themself so little, just as Aziraphale was, and only Aziraphale squeezing his hand helps to settle him. Jorael turns a little pink, but ploughs on with their explanation.

"Then when I joined the Ninth Choir, some of the other angels wanted to know where I'd come from. If I was Nephilim - I had to look that up - or whose child I was. And I didn't know. I asked Archangel Gabriel if I was his - he was the one who'd arranged for me to be taught things like walking and talking and all the other things angels do - but he said no. That I was one of Her creations, and nobody else had anything to do with it. That I'd been born on Earth."

Crowley can’t help but be a little stung by that; for one thing, the Archangel Gabriel isn’t worthy to kiss the hem of his child’s robes, much less call himself their father, and for another, Crowley had had rather a _lot_ to do with his child’s birth, actually. It had been hard work, exhausting, and the more he and Aziraphale talk about their past - they do, now that it’s safe - the more he realises that he probably would have been discorporated in the process, were it not for Aziraphale’s timely intervention. He folds his arms, trying to keep his emotions inside, but Aziraphale has no such qualms.

"Crowley grew your corporation inside his own, he laboured like a human to give you life."

"Doesn't matter, angel." He reaches out to squeeze Aziraphale’s hand in gratitude, though; he doesn’t want his angel to think it’s not appreciated, but he has larger concerns than any slight to himself. "You were happy, growing up? They treated you well?"

"They treated me like all the other angels," Jorael answers, which is not as reassuring as they probably hope. Still, _they_ seem happy enough with the situation. "I was quite content. Until-"

"Until-?" Aziraphale’s voice holds a hint of the panic Crowley feels. "Until what-?"

"If they harmed you," Crowley growls, ready to go to war with all of Heaven and God Herself, if needs be - but Jorael cuts him off.

"No! No, nothing like- I just- I was happy, but then I came down to visit Earth and there was an angel asking about me... but not me.” Jorael seems to wilt slightly, and Crowley realises that Jorael has felt the lack of knowledge about their own origins. It has bothered them, the fact that Aziraphale asked about them for reasons they could not fathom. “You didn't know who I was. And I thought- there was something to know, something about myself that they weren't telling me. And I wanted to know."

"Definitely your child," Crowley murmurs, and Aziraphale scoffs.

"Yes, dear, because _you're_ known for your _lack_ of curiosity."

"I'm… like you?" Jorael's eyes are wide with wonder or fear. "We're alike?"

"Quite," Aziraphale agrees, even as Crowley tries to deny it.

"Like him. You're like _him_ , you don't want to be like me."

Jorael just looks at them for a moment, then sighs.

"Why didn't you raise me?" It’s a simple question, but Crowley can almost sense Aziraphale’s confusion, can see it in the little furrow of his brow. Their child has asked this before, and been answered, and Aziraphale doesn’t understand why they’re asking again. Crowley, though, thinks he does. At any rate, he’s not about to refuse Jorael the answers he needs.

"I couldn't. You were an angel, and I belonged to Hell. Aziraphale planned to raise you, with Heaven's knowledge, but-"

"Gabriel seemed very certain that Heaven was the right place for you. And that I was still needed here," Aziraphale interrupts, which is probably for the best. Crowley could talk about the injustice of it all for hours, and that would hardly endear him to his child.

"Did he know I was… that you were…" Jorael hesitates, as if they can't quite bring themselves to finish the sentence. "Did he know I was part-demon, all-?"

"You're not," Crowley insists, seeking to reassure them, "the difference between an angel and a demon is Falling. That's all, no matter what else they'd all like you to believe. You haven't Fallen, so you're an angel."

"But- you're a demon."

"I am. But my choices didn't get passed down to you, and neither did the consequences." And if there’s one thing Crowley would thank Her for, it’s that.

They sit still for a moment, processing that, and then Aziraphale leaps up, suddenly a whirl of frantic energy.

"Shall I make us some tea? Oh- sorry, Jorael- Do you drink tea, or is that-?"

"I've never had the opportunity to try it," Jorael admits, "but I'd like to, if I may."

Then Aziraphale is gone, and Crowley is left to face their child’s questions alone.

“So… they didn’t know you were a demon?” Jorael prompts, and Crowley shudders.

“No. No, I would never have- it would have put you _and_ Aziraphale in danger if they’d known. Me, too, I suppose, because they would have told Hell.”

“How- I mean- if you gave birth to me, how did they miss-?” Jorael frowns. “How long did you have me before you gave me away?” Ah. Crowley sees the problem.

“I’m not sure, exactly. Hours, at most. I- well, I gave birth to you in a stable, and then when we’d decided on a plan I left and Aziraphale called an Archangel.”

“ _You really were given to me,_ ” Jorael murmurs, and it takes Crowley a moment to place the words. Aziraphale’s words, he realises, when the truth finally came out. Jorael has kept those words like treasures since then. “Why a stable?”

“Always the question,” Crowley sighs. “It was there, and I didn’t have much time to be picky- I suppose you want to hear the details?”

“I am curious,” Jorael concedes, “but if you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine.”

“No, I- I do, I think.” Talking about it has always felt next to impossible, even with Aziraphale, but now that their child is in front of him, close enough to touch, he feels equal to the task. “I don’t know where to start.”

“You and Aziraphale… arrived at the stable?” Jorael prompts, and Crowley can’t quite hold back a bitter laugh. That would have been so much less terrifying, and if he’d just been brave enough to tell Aziraphale he was pregnant, he could have had that small comfort-

“No. Poor Aziraphale didn’t know about any of it until he first set eyes on you. No, it was just me; I’d been following a man I was supposed to tempt, and that’s when the first pains began.”

By the time Aziraphale returns with the tea, the whole story of the birth - such as it is, Crowley’s memory being a little hazy on the details - has come out.

"...and that's when Aziraphale arrived, I think I passed out after that," Crowley finishes, and turns to Aziraphale as he places a tea tray down on the table between them. Then the angel completely freezes up, staring at the tea things as if they are completely alien concepts to him.

"I- er-"

"Shall I be Mother?" Crowley offers, swooping in to save him as he always does, and then realises what he’s said. Is he Jorael’s mother? Does he have any right to call himself Jorael’s parent at all, having played no part in raising them? Does Jorael _want_ him to be their parent? Aziraphale steps right back in to rescue him in return.

"You pour, my dear, and I'll sort out the milk."

"Are- that is- should I call you…?" Jorael trails off, accepting the cup of tea and peering down at it. Nobody seems to know how to answer that question; the very thought of being called _mother_ sets Crowley’s heart fluttering, and he’s not sure it’s a pleasant sensation.

Jorael speaks, at last, when it becomes clear that nobody else is going to.

"I didn't know what to think, before. All I've ever done is try to be a good angel, to serve Her, and then you told me I was the child of the angel who thwarted the Great Plan. That was a lot to deal with, and then- then a demon, too. I thought it had to be a trick."

"I'm sorry," Crowley begins, and Jorael snaps at him.

"No. I don't want an apology." Crowley cringes back, but Jorael isn’t finished. "Not from you."

_Oh._ Crowley can’t really tell their child how to feel about being given away - he has no right to tell them how to feel about anything - but he’s struggling to find a way to explain that it’s not Aziraphale’s fault even as Aziraphale bows his head and begins to apologise.

"I'm-"

"Nor you," Jorael continues. "Your story hasn't changed. It took me more than a year to get clearance to return to Earth, and you're still saying the same thing. Even the parts you think make you sound bad." They frown. "Exactly the same.

"It's the truth," Aziraphale explains, and Jorael nods.

"I asked Gabriel again. How I came to be. And he told me it didn't matter who my parent was, what they'd done. Because they hadn't had a chance to corrupt me. Yet another story - that's all it was, wasn't it? Stories. You're telling me the truth." 

"Perhaps…" Crowley raises an eyebrow; he’s seen Aziraphale’s expression before, when he’s been making excuses for Heaven’s cruelty, but it’s been a while. "Perhaps, in his own way, he was trying to protect you. Perhaps he came to love you, over time."

"He's barely spoken to me, especially since the Great Plan fell apart." Jorael shakes their head. " _Love is not love, which alters when it alteration finds._ "

" _Or bends with the remover to remove,_ " Crowley continues fondly, "I gave him that one."

"Did you? How funny. I gave him _it is an ever-fixed mark_ , and the bit about the tempests." Aziraphale is full of surprises; Crowley knew Shakespeare often sourced pretty bits of imagery from friends and acquaintances, but had somehow never realised Aziraphale would be one of them.

"I was thinking of a different kind of love, I think," Crowley admits, "I was thinking about the princes, and looking after them not changing what we'd lost in-" He can’t say it, not in front of Jorael; it’s too pathetic, too vulnerable, and what if they don’t want to have been used as inspiration for- 

"Part of that beautiful sonnet… is about me?" Jorael leans in as they speak, eyes bright and fixed on Crowley.

"Er. Yeah. I, er, I might have helped with the _even to the edge of doom_ bit, too, but that was mostly for Aziraphale."

"He was _very_ stuck that week, wasn't he?" Aziraphale sighs, and then seems to remember himself. "I'm sorry, what were you saying before?"

"Just… if Gabriel loved me, he wouldn't have been even colder after you stopped Armageddon, would he?"

Crowley can’t argue with that, but he also refuses to be the one who tells his child that the only mentor they’ve ever known was incapable of loving them. Jorael doesn’t seem to be dwelling on it, though.

"You must have had other adventures, besides inspiring sonnets." They look between their parents curiously. "I don't even know how you met."

"Ah." Aziraphale lights up, as he always does when he’s given the opportunity to tell this story. Crowley knows what’s expected of him and rolls his eyes.

"Oh, here we go." It comes out very fond, because of course he _is_ very fond of Aziraphale, and of the playful way they tell this story between themselves, through earnest angelic expression and dry demonic asides.

"Well, you see, _he_ was a wily old serpent and _I_ was technically on apple tree duty…"

Jorael listens with rapt attention, and Crowley forgets to interject as often as usual because he’s watching them instead. At one point, they take a sip of their tea and grimace; like Aziraphale, they’ve let it go cold. He snaps his fingers to reheat both forgotten cups, and is rewarded with a frankly besotted look from Aziraphale and a smile from their child as the story goes on.

"And then, not ten minutes after I'd seen that poor woman safely on her way, on the last horse available, Jesus and his little crowd turned up wanting to make a big entrance. He had to ride in on a donkey! I do feel a little bad about that, but she needed the help."

"Riding in on a horse wouldn't have saved him, angel," Crowley points out, as he always does, "he was dead not long after that. Bet your bruised woman wasn't - thanks to you."

"Still-"

"Oh, no." Jorael’s attention is on the sky outside, which has started to turn dark while they’ve been talking. "I should have been back hours ago. I'm sorry, I have to go-"  
“But you'll come back?" Aziraphale asks, and Jorael hugs him. Crowley isn’t jealous, of course, not at all.

"As soon as I can. I want to hear about more of your adventures."

"We want to hear about yours," Crowley counters, and Jorael throws their arms around him, too. It takes him a moment to get his head around it. "Be sssafe," he murmurs, and gathers the courage to brush a kiss across their forehead, just as he did so many years before in a draughty stable. He’s determined not to cry, but it’s a struggle to keep the tears in.

"You, too." Jorael looks as though they’re biting their tongue - Crowley can’t think why, at first, and then he realises that angels usually bless whoever they’re saying goodbye to as a matter of form, and _oh_ they’re holding back for _him_ \- and then, with an awkward little nod, they leave.

Crowley and Aziraphale are clinging to one another before they’re even aware of moving, and Crowley can’t even begin to process what’s just happened. Last time they saw Jorael, Crowley was certain that, curiosity aside, their child would want little to do with their demonic parent. Now, it seems as though they’ve passed some sort of test. Jorael wants to hear their stories, wants to hug them, wants to know what to call them. There’s hope for them as a family, after all.

"Oh, good lord,” Aziraphale exclaims suddenly. “What on Earth are we supposed to say about Golgotha?"

"Very little," Crowley suggests, "I suppose we should get used to using the phrase _one-night stand._ " Their child doesn’t need to know the details.

"Hm. Very well. Now, what were we doing before we were interrupted earlier?" Crowley was right, earlier; his angel is _insatiable_. And Crowley isn’t complaining.

"Not sure, angel. Remind me." 

  
They stumble back to bed, and Crowley wonders what on earth he’s ever done to deserve _this_ wonderful day. His child is back in his life, Aziraphale is in his bed as well as his heart, and the world seems less cruel by the moment.

As they fall asleep that night, Crowley is already thinking about the best stories to tell Jorael on their next visit, very soon.


	42. London, 2025 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just the epilogue after this one, barring any surprise inspiration (if that happens, it'll probably be a separate fic, so you might like to subscribe to the series just in case). Thank you all for coming along on this journey, and I hope you'll enjoy this chapter - which it was an absolute joy to get to write twice!

There are times when Crowley wonders if Aziraphale can hear her thoughts, so accurately does he respond to them. Tonight is just such an occasion, as she rests in her angel's embrace and tries desperately to put her fears aside so she can sleep. 

"It hasn't been that long, really," Aziraphale's voice reverberates softly at the base of her skull. "I'm sure they're all right."

"Probably," Crowley concedes, unwilling to worry her angel for no better reason than a queasy feeling in her stomach, "there's probably just a waiting list or something. For Earth visits. Not a free-for-all like Downstairs."

"Hm." Aziraphale doesn't sound convinced, and it occurs to Crowley that maybe he doesn't realise she's worried at all. Perhaps Aziraphale is speaking to his own fear. "You don't think they're in trouble?"

"I don't expect so." Trying to seem casual, Crowley rolls over - and the look in Aziraphale’s eyes confirms her suspicions. "What's brought this on, angel?"

"What if they need our help?"

"They've made it this far without us. We just have to trust them."

Aziraphale doesn’t look any more convinced than Crowley feels, but she’s committed to reassuring him now.

"Angel, I know it's hard. I worry, too. But we can't- it's not going to do anyone any good. Worrying about it." It’s the truth, hard though it is to hold onto it. It will drive them mad, worrying, if they let it.

"No," Aziraphale agrees, "but I can't seem to clear my mind."

"Let me help," Crowley suggests, and pulls her nightie over her head. She knows how to distract them both, after all - and she will never have enough of Aziraphale.

For a moment, she thinks he isn’t going to go for it, and then suddenly he’s kissing her, pulling her close and pressing his lips down her neck to her chest.

“Can you believe we used to go centuries without this?” Aziraphale’s voice is already turning rough and low, the way it does when he can barely think for arousal, and Crowley laughs. She  _ can’t  _ believe it; it’s not as though sex is the foundation of their relationship, but she does love undoing all Aziraphale’s careful restraint and reducing him to a happy, carefree mess of an angel.

"Patience of an angel," she points out, "think how  _ I _ felt."

"Fuck patience," Aziraphale declares, and she knows he’s aware of how much she loves it when he swears.

"Fuck me," she fires back, and he shakes his head.

"No, my love. If you don't mind, I'd rather make love to you."

"Same thing," Crowley mutters, as if she doesn’t adore how gently he treats her. How much he cares. "Whatever you're going to do, just do it now. I feel like I'm going to fall apart if you don't."

"You fall apart when I  _ do," _ Aziraphale points out, and isn’t that the truth? Crowley clings to him for what feels like the rest of the night as Aziraphale takes his time making her see every star she ever made.

The next day, they don’t rise until the afternoon, and then they go for a walk in St James’s Park. Crowley pretends to complain about the aches in her muscles and the slight bruises from Aziraphale’s most enthusiastic kisses, just to remind him that they’re there. That Crowley is his, and that he’s hers, and that she wears the marks he leaves on her skin like trophies. He offers to soothe the aches, of course, and she shakes her head.

"Don't you dare. Souvenirs."

Aziraphale looks at her with such tenderness that she wonders if he’s about to sweep her off her feet again - and then a crash of thunder breaks the moment. All around them, humans peer up at the sky, but Crowley knows better. She, like Aziraphale, looks towards the bookshop, and then, moments later, they turn their heads towards a second crash that comes from nearer Crowley’s flat.

“That’s not a good landing,” Crowley mutters grimly, because she doesn’t want to think about what it means, but then there’s a third crack of thunder and a humanoid figure slams into the tarmac at the other end of the path. Jorael - because of course it’s Jorael - scrambles to their feet and looks around, and Crowley’s barely aware of making a decision before she’s running towards them, Aziraphale at her side. Jorael wheels around at the sound of their footsteps, eyes wide and scared.

“I’m in trouble.”

“What’s-?” But Aziraphale doesn’t need to ask; Jorael is already tripping over themself to explain.

“Heaven. They restricted the Earth visits, said it was against the Great Plan to keep sending angels down there too often. Put the Earth Studies programme on hold, since Earth’s not supposed to exist any more. Said it was dangerous. I asked Gabriel for one more trip, since I was born here- and he revoked my Earth privileges altogether.”

“Then how-?”

“Do you know,” Jorael interrupts, as if they’re remarking on the weather, “the Quartermaster went a little mad after the War that Wasn’t? Started telling everyone who’d listen about the angel who sent himself back down to Earth, without even a body, said he was going to become a demon?”

“Ah,” Aziraphale manages weakly, and Crowley realises why that sounds familiar.

“My corporation’s mine, so I didn’t have to worry about possessing anyone - I realised there was only one angel who could have done that, if he wasn’t really as mad as everyone thought. And if my- my father- could do it-”

“Jorael.” Crowley cuts across them, voice low and urgent. She’s more frightened now than she has been in… well, since the fire at the bookshop. “Did anyone see you?”

“Oh. Yeah.” They’re a little bashful, but defiant all the same. Crowley recognises that unwillingness to apologise for something they know is right; they get that from her, mostly. And now it might doom them forever. “Yeah, Gabriel noticed. I might, possibly, have shouted at him before I-”

“Don’t sell yourself short.” The icy voice comes from behind them. “You definitely shouted some things before you threw yourself out of Heaven.”

Crowley turns; Gabriel, the Archangel  _ Fucking  _ Gabriel is standing there, just a few metres away, mouth smiling, eyes cold. He’s too close to Jorael, too close to Aziraphale, too close to Crowley’s  _ family _ , and for a moment the breath catches in her throat. They are in danger, all of them, and Crowley can’t protect them.

“I-” Jorael’s eyes widen as they begin to plead for their place in the Host. “I just wanted to visit- am I going to Fall?”

“Well, yeah,” Gabriel shrugs, and lets the pronouncement hang in the air before continuing. “Unless you come back right now. Then I can try to pull a few strings. Since Earth has such an unusual claim on you. But you’re never coming back.”

“But- my parents-”

“Oh, yeah. That was the strange thing, when you were shouting. You kept talking about how your parent’s on Earth. It makes sense, I suppose. You’ve been exposed to Aziraphale’s strange thinking, and it’s turned your head.”

It’s a relief, in a sense, to realise that Gabriel still doesn’t know Crowley has anything to do with Jorael’s origins. It makes them a little safer, a little less of a target. It stings, all the same.

“He is my parent, isn’t he?” Jorael demands, because they’ve clearly inherited Crowley’s inability to quit while they’re ahead, and Crowley shuffles back a couple of steps, trying not to seem associated with Jorael. He can just be here with Aziraphale, and Jorael can be completely demon-free. They can be welcomed back into Heaven, if they choose.

“The Almighty sent you through him, and he gave you to Heaven. And that’s all it takes for him to win your loyalty away from Heaven?” Gabriel scoffs. “You should be thanking me.”

“For letting me stay in Heaven?”

“For taking you from him in the first place. Imagine how much more of a failure you’d have been if I’d let the traitor raise you.”

Crowley sees red; she lurches forward, but she barely makes it a few inches towards the archangel before Jorael is there, drawing back their fist and slamming it directly into Gabriel’s nose. Crowley’s vaguely aware of Aziraphale’s clenched fists, of the way Jorael takes a step backwards and then another, but her eyes are fixed on Gabriel, monitoring the threat. They’ve really done it now. She doesn’t look away from the archangel as she reaches out to steady her child, a brief touch on the elbow that she hopes will bring comfort. And then, as Gabriel snaps the blood away from his face, she and Aziraphale step forward to shield their child.

“You’ll pay for that-”

“Hello.” Crowley treats Gabriel to her most insincere grin. “Remember me? Michael must have mentioned me, not every day you meet a Holy Waterproof demon.”

“And naturally, you’ll remember what happened when you tried to burn me alive in Hellfire,” Aziraphale adds, and Jorael gasps in horror. Apparently, that hadn’t been particularly well-publicised in Heaven, which is a shame, because Crowley really enjoyed the spectacle of the fire-spitting bit. “I’m not sure you want to interfere with any of us.” 

Gabriel hesitates, choosing his target, but then he sneers. “What sort of sorry excuse for a demon would face down Heaven for an angel’s child?”

“Oh, a terrible one,” Crowley tells him lightly.

“A good one,” Aziraphale argues, because he can never let that sort of opportunity pass by.

“My mother,” Jorael whispers, and Crowley’s heart begins to thump painfully in her chest.  _ My mother.  _ It’s the acceptance she’s longed for since the first time she tried to pick up her child, and it’s exhilarating and terrifying all at once. “I think I’ll stay with my parents, thank you, Archangel Gabriel. In case that wasn’t clear.”

Gabriel makes a face like Aziraphale trying to work out any technology developed since the late 1950s, but he gets there eventually. He makes the connection Crowley has tried to conceal for two thousand years, and his face turns thunderous.

“Your parents.” Crowley smiles and waves, just as she did that day on Tadfield Airbase, and Aziraphale seems to have the same thought at the same time. “You’re  _ their _ child. Both of them.”

“Oh, didn’t I mention that?” Aziraphale sighs dramatically. “I really am so absent-minded.”

There’s a sense of victory about them, a family unit at last, uniting against the bully who’s overshadowed so much of Aziraphale’s life. But then Gabriel laughs, a mirthless sound.

“Well, that’s just perfect. Perhaps you can prepare your child for what comes next.” He spares one last smirk for Crowley, then turns to Jorael. “Enjoy your Fall.”

With a flash and a crack, Gabriel is gone, and Crowley turns to pull her child into her arms. They’re clearly terrified, and so is Crowley, but she can’t let them see it. She can’t scare them even more.

“I’m going to Fall,” Jorael whispers, and Crowley clings almost tightly enough to crush them against her chest.

“It’s bad. But you’ll survive. And I’ll come to you. I’ll Fall with you, if I can. I won't leave you there.” And then they stand there, locked together, waiting for smoke and sulphur and that terrible plummet into the misery of Hell. Aziraphale doesn’t join them; he can’t, not without endangering himself, and Crowley would never allow that even if he tried.

“Dear, don’t you think this is taking rather a long time?” Aziraphale ventures at last, and Crowley can’t hold back a snarl of fury.

“Sorry, angel, did you want us to hurry it up?” 

Aziraphale ignores her. “I  _ mean, _ my dears, that if Jorael was going to Fall for what was, frankly, a  _ phenomenal _ left hook, I think they would have done by now. Don’t you?”

“Oh.” Crowley loosens her grip a fraction to look Jorael over; no scales, no smoke, no snake-like eyes, no sign at all that they’re becoming like her.  _ Oh, thank- well. Phew.  _ “Yeah, probably.”

“Then I suggest we go home and see what happens.”

But Jorael doesn’t let go of Crowley’s shirt; she can feel them trembling.

“But- I  _ punched an archangel. _ I lost faith-”

“In the Almighty?” Aziraphale asks gently, and Jorael shakes their head vigorously.

“No! No, just in… in Gabriel.”

“And, despite what he might think, he is not God. I think you’ll be just fine, dear.  _ I _ haven’t Fallen, after all.”

“Blatant favouritism, is what it is,” Crowley grumbles, relieved beyond all measure. Of course Aziraphale hasn’t Fallen, for reasons best known to the Almighty, and now it seems their child shares that same immunity to consequences. Crowley can’t begrudge them that, not when he’s so glad of it. And now, it seems, Jorael belongs to Earth’s side, too. “Come on, you can stay at my place, if you like. I’m sure it can muster up a spare room - no point trying to add one to the bookshop, it’ll only fill up with books before you get near it.”

“I can stay with you?”

“For as long as you want,” Aziraphale confirms. “Let’s go home.”

Crowley takes Jorael’s hand and watches as they reach for Aziraphale’s, linking them all together like a real family, like two parents walking with their child in a park. They  _ are _ , at long last, two parents and their child in a park, and Crowley feels a deep sense of satisfaction settle over her.

“So am  _ I  _ immune to Hellfire and Holy Water?”

“No,” they both reply sharply, and Jorael laughs.

There’ll be time to explain later; for now, all Crowley wants is to take her family home, and so she does.


	43. Fulking, 2034 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe we're here, at the end of the story (again)! Thank you so much to everyone who's read this story and/or its predecessor, to everyone who's commented, and to the whole Good Omens fandom for helping me get through this absolute nightmare of a year. You haven't seen the last of me!
> 
> Anyway, here you go, the last chapter, on the last day of 2020. Enjoy!

“That’s it, you’re getting the hang of it now!”

Jorael beams proudly, in as much as a kitten can beam, and Crowley smiles back. Aziraphale shakes out his wings and honks before shifting back into his usual corporation.

“Very good. Obviously some animals will come more naturally to you than others, but you should be able to choose your form a bit more than I can. It’s a demon thing, getting stuck with one, but you can still have a bit of fun with it.”

“What sort of fun?” Jorael asks, and Crowley shrugs, transforming effortlessly into his serpent form.

“Well, I don’t always have to be a normal-sssized sssnake.” He focuses for a moment, and suddenly he’s as large as he was when he first met Aziraphale. “Perfect ssssize for sssneaking up on angels.”

Jorael grins. “Have you ever tried getting really big and pretending to be a dragon?”

“Of course he has,” Aziraphale grumbles good-naturedly, “caused no end of trouble.” But Crowley is already rearing up to a monstrous height, before drawing himself back in until he’s barely the size of a pencil.

“And this way I can sneak into anywhere. Spent a week in Aziraphale’s pocket, once, sleeping off a hangover.”

“Gabriel visited the day after he left,” Aziraphale remembers with a shudder, “which in the span of an eternity is a very close call.”

“Speaking of Gabriel, have you heard from Iaoth recently?” Crowley ignores Aziraphale’s glare, and thankfully Jorael doesn’t seem to notice.

“No. No, they only visited last week, they won’t get back down here for a while yet. Apparently, they’re working on convincing Humiel to pop down for a bit, too. Get to know our side a little.”

Crowley smiles a secret smile, easily masked by the fact that he’s currently a six-inch long snake. Unbeknownst to Jorael, Iaoth’s next visit will be completely unauthorised as they make the transition to the side of Earth, the side their best friend has chosen. And they won’t have to wait long; Iaoth means to meet them in Anata, where they’re visiting Jorael’s place of birth in honour of their 2000th birthday. And if Humiel really can be convinced to hear them out, even just to visit occasionally, their Earth Studies class will be approaching a 100% defection rate - something that will upset Gabriel no end and makes Crowley positively gleeful to contemplate.

“Can you do any other sizes, Dad?” Jorael asks, and Crowley hurries to comply. It’s nice to get a chance to show off, after all.

Later, when Jorael has gone home, and when Crowley and Aziraphale have watched from the window as they pick their way through the two gardens that separate their cottages, they slip into bed together and settle. Crowley stares at the back of Aziraphale’s head for a while - his nose buried in that familiar cloud of hair - until at last the angel makes a discontented noise.

“You’re thinking very loudly, my dear. What’s wrong?”

“Oh, just… well. Two thousand years. Two thousand years ago, everything was so different.”

“Hmm.” Aziraphale rolls over to give him his full attention. “How do you feel about it?”

“Glad we’re here,” Crowley tells him, because that’s important, and then hesitates. “Nostalgic, perhaps.”

“Nostalgic? That’s a surprise. You must have been so scared.”

“Well, yes, but… it was nice, in a way. I thought- well, I thought I might get lucky, for once in my existence. I thought I might get to keep the baby, have someone to look after. A part of you to keep with me.” Crowley sighs. “I knew I couldn’t, really, but I thought… perhaps if they’d been born a demon, somehow.”

“Hmm.” It’s Aziraphale’s turn to hesitate before speaking, his voice as gentle as Crowley has ever heard it. “2015, my dear. Do you remember, you asked me a question?”

Crowley has to cast his mind back, and what he remembers is mostly an emotional breakdown of sorts.

“I asked… if I should have used smoke signals?”

“Yes, and you were right to, but that’s not what I meant. You asked me, if it happened again, would I want it?”

“Oh.” Crowley does remember, now, and he’s not sure he wants to have this conversation. Aziraphale has always seemed content with the way things are, and so is Crowley, really. It’s not that he’s _unhappy_. He just wonders, occasionally, what it would be like to have that chance again. To be a parent who actually got to raise their child.

“You said you thought you might.” Aziraphale reminds him, the words barely more than a breath. “Is that still how you feel?”

“Ngk.”

“Because if you wanted… I would. I did, then, too - if we could have, if it would have been safe…”

“Angel.” He can’t be saying what Crowley thinks he’s saying. “Angel, do you mean-?”

“I, er, well, I certainly wouldn’t want to pressure you. Or impose in any way - if you _did_ want another child, I could- I could carry it, if you’d rather-”

“You want another baby,” Crowley breathes, hardly daring to believe it, “with me.”

“Only if you want-”

Crowley moves with the sort of speed required to surprise an angel, rolling them and kissing him until his heart stops pounding so violently in his chest.

“I want,” he admits, “I _do_ want. If you- and you- I’d like to do it again, if you don’t mind. Prove I can, and all that.” He’s blushing as he speaks, and they both know it’s not quite as simple as _proving_ something. On some deep, primal level, Crowley wants to go through it all again, with his angel at his side and the promise of family at the end of it.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale manages, relieved, and then laughs. “That wasn’t quite the right thing to say, was it? Only I was a little anxious about that part of it- perhaps I’ll get the next one.” Then he seems to realise what he’s said.

“Let’s see how it goes this time, hm?” Crowley can’t help the besotted expression he knows is on his face; he loves his angel, and he’s so _happy_ , and they can do this. Together, they can do anything. “Better wait a little while, though. Jorael’s birthday and all.”

“Oh, yes. We wouldn’t want to upstage them.” Then his expression turns wicked. “We could practice, though. The making part.”

“Insatiable,” Crowley teases, and pulls him closer.

The next day, Crowley wakes feeling as though he’s been caught in a landslide. He stumbles down to the garden, sleepy but contented, and as he goes he begins to remember the previous night’s conversation. He’s smiling by the time he finds Aziraphale, nose in a book as usual. 

"Morning, angel," he greets him with a kiss, and Aziraphale laughs. 

"Not quite morning. You seemed like you needed the sleep."

"I feel better for it," Crowley admits, "all those shapeshifting lessons wiped me out."

"I'm sorry, dear. You did have two very demanding students."

 _"You_ were fine. _You_ weren't the one pestering for demonstrations of all the different sizes of snake I've ever been." He had, however, found his own way of wearing Crowley out after dark.

"They were excited."

"I know, and I'm glad. But I'm taking it easy for a while."

"Very wise. I think Jorael overestimated their own energy, too, for what it's worth. No sign of them yet today."

"Well, I'm glad they have my appreciation of sleep. Shall we pop round and take them out for dinner later?" Aziraphale nods, and Crowley crowds into his space to peer at the page. "What are you reading?"

They spend the afternoon lazing about in the garden - Crowley exerts himself so far as to have a firm word with his plants, which have been taking advantage of his good mood since the moment they were planted - and then Aziraphale fetches the cake he’s apparently baked, which Crowley must have drifted past on his way out to the garden and completely failed to notice. For all that he teases Aziraphale about his cooking, the angel has become quite a good baker, and it’s only right that Jorael should get a proper birthday cake for the end of their second millennium. The cream-coloured buttercream reminds him of Aziraphale, both in the sense that it’s his usual colour and that that it looks _delicious._ Crowley can’t resist reaching out for a taste.

"It looks amazing."

"Stick your finger in this icing and I will smite you, foul fiend." But Aziraphale is laughing as he bats Crowley’s hand away, and Crowley smiles back, unrepentant.

"You'd never. You love me too much." And _oh,_ how lovely it is to be so sure of that.

"Mm, for my sins." He kisses him quickly and then straightens up, all business. "Shall we go?"

Together, they walk down their garden and into Jorael’s, where Aziraphale has to stop him from giving the garden a piece of his mind.

"That pear tree should be flowering by now,"

"You know you're not allowed to shout at these ones."

"But they're-"

"Boundaries, dearest." And Crowley knows; Jorael isn’t a child any more, and they have to be allowed to make their own decisions, in their own space. "I'm sure it will all be fine in the end. Sometimes things grow just fine when they're left to themselves."

"Hm. It doesn't mean they couldn't use the help." But he leaves the tree to its own devices, just as Jorael likes it.

When they reach the back door, Jorael lets them in and laughs at Crowley’s overprotectiveness - they really _should_ lock the door, though, if only to keep out _humans_ \- before giving each of their parents a big hug and sharing out the cake. Even Crowley eats some, just to show willing. Besides, he supposes he’ll need all the energy he can get, soon enough.

“Are you excited for our trip to Anata?” Aziraphale is asking, by the time Crowley tunes back into the conversation, and Jorael nods.

“Very. I can’t believe I’m going to get to see the place I was born, after all these years.”

“It’s not quite the same,” Crowley points out, afraid they’ll be disappointed. “You won’t be able to see the actual stable or anything. Doubt I could find the site, even.”

“No, but-” Jorael stops abruptly. “Are you going to be all right, Dad? It’s not going to bring up bad memories?”

“Oh. No, of course not. I’ll be fine. I’m just a bit nervous, that’s all.” It _is_ going to bring back memories, but with Jorael at his side it won’t be so bad. Their presence will remind him that something good, someone _amazing_ was born that day, and Crowley hasn’t lost them after all.

“We don’t have to go, if you don’t want to-”

“We’re going,” Crowley insists, “it’ll be a nice adventure. Besides, it’s not every day you turn two millennia old, is it?”

They sit together and eat cake, and drink wine, and perhaps Crowley drinks a little too much wine, because he finds himself close to tears as he thinks about the hard road they’ve all walked to get here and the bright future that now awaits them.

“I’m glad you found us,” he confesses to Jorael later, “it tore me apart to lose you.”

“And me,” Aziraphale adds, his words running together a fraction, “I missed you. And Gabriel wouldn’t tell me anything.”

“You two should probably sober up before you start sobbing,” Jorael teases, “but I’m glad, too. I’m glad we found each other.”

And when the sun rises the next day, it finds the three of them standing together on Jorael’s doorstep, ready to take on the next two thousand years as a family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> EDIT: Oh my gods, check out [ this gorgeous painting of Jorael](https://twitter.com/scribboo/status/1345003924697346048?s=19) by Columbidae!


End file.
